THE  MAN  BETWEEN 


'She  was  looking  up  into  Ids  face,  the  violet 
eyes  raining  tears  " 


THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

BY 
WALTER  ARCHER  FROST 


Illustrations  by 
Howard  McCormick 


GARDEN  CITY        NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1913 


Copyright,  1913,  by 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE    &   COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages, 

including  the  Scandinavian 


THIS   BOOK   IS 

DEDICATED   TO  MY 

FATHER   AND   MOTHER 


2135448 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  Two  Aliens  in  Durban  ....         3 

II.  Exiles  ...                ....       11 

III.  South  Africa 31 

IV.  Stranded 39 

V.  Thokolosi,  the  Evil  One,  the  Poisoner      48 

VI.  Strangers  to  South  Africa         ...       65 

VII.     Staying  On 75 

VIII.  That  Night  at  the  Regent        ...       84 

IX.  It  Is  Not  Good  for  Man  to  Be  Alone       99 

X.     Morning 105 

XL  The  Fruit  of  Seven  Hours        ...        .115 

XII.  The  Wisdom  of  Hammerstone         .        .124 

XIII.  The  World  Went  On  Again          .        .     128 

XIV.  Whom  Chadwell  Left  Behind       .        .     134 
XV.     Flight  144 

XVI.  The  Singer's  Rooms        .        .        .        .151 
XVII.  On  the  Rennie  Dock  at  Eleven-Forty- 
Five         159 

XVIII.  The  One  Thing  Left  to  Do       .       .        .165 

XIX.  In  Recognition  of  the  Truth        .       .     169 

XX.  Importers  and  Exporters  of  Australian 

Wools 175 

XXI.  Where  the  Truth  Had  No  Place        .     182 

XXII.  The  Victor  and  the  Spoils        .       .       .189 

XXIII.  In  the  Direction  of  the  Truth                       197 


Vlll 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

XXIV. 
XXV. 

Greg's  Malady         .... 
Fear     

PAGE 

.     201 
210 

XXVI. 
XXVII. 

The  English  Violet 
Alone       

.     216 

.     224 

XXVIII. 
XXIX. 
XXX. 

Waiting       .        .        .        . 
Kimberley           
Durban       

.     232 
.     240 
.     249 

XXXI. 
XXXII. 

Adrift          
With  the  Current    .... 

.     260 
267 

XXXIII. 

America      

.     273 

XXXIV. 
XXXV. 

Victoria       
The  Man  Between  . 

.     279 

284 

ILLUSTRATIONS 

"She  was  looking  up  into  his  face,  the  violet  eyes 
raining  tears " Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

"'Death   shall   come   fast    to    those    who    have 
earned  the  nGaka's  curse ' " 90 

"'Tell  Greg  and  Ormsby  I've  gone  after  Fraser 
andChadwell'" 156 

"The  big  man  stared  on  at  him"        ....    282 


THE  MAN  BETWEEN 


CHAPTER  I 
TWO  ALIENS  IN  DURBAN 

FOR  one  thing,  he's  terribly  well  off,"  said  Anne 
Netherby.  "And  that  makes  him  a  novelty  in 
Durban." 

The  girl  to  whom  she  spoke  did  not  answer.  She  would 
have  been  more  than  human  if  she  had  not  taken  one 
more  glance  into  the  pier-glass.  But  it  was  only  a  very 
brief  glance  —  one  which  almost  timidly  approved 
the  general  effect  of  her  rose-coloured  gown,  cut  only  so 
low  as  to  show  the  tips  of  her  soft  shoulders,  then  coming, 
with  but  a  slight  dip,  across  her  breast. 

She  was  nervous  and  she  knew  it;  and  the  emotion 
was  the  more  disturbing  because  she  was  powerless  to 
identify  its  source.  In  an  effort  to  distract  her  thoughts, 
she  straightened  her  tall  young  body  and  looked  full 
into  the  pier-glass,  raising  her  brows,  to  discipline  a 
mutinous  curl  which  framed,  though  she  had  neither 
guessed  nor  been  told  it,  the  famed  "widow's  peak."  She 
had  heard  only  a  little  of  what  Anne  had  been  saying, 
but  she  assembled  the  fragments,  and  answered: 

"Yes,  but  that's  only  as  far  as  you  got  before.  Can't 
you  be  nice,  and  really  tell  me  something  about  him? 
Not  what  he's  worth,  but  what  he  is  besides  being  just 
another  well-to-do  American?" 

"Well-to-do?"  Miss  Netherby  sent  her  hands  away. 


4  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

"I  imagine  it's  because  you're  just  out  here  from  England, 
but  you  won't  be  twenty-four  hours  more  in  Durban 
without  finding  we  don't  speak  of  money  that  way  here! 
Not  in  South  Africa !  And,  even  if  we  did,  your  *  well-to- 
do'  wouldn't  describe  John  Tyler  Ormsby." 

"Yes,  I  know.  He's  been  trying  out  Kimberley,  hasn't 
he?" 

"He's  been  torturing  it!  He's  treated  it  the  same  way 
he  did  —  what  do  they  call  it?  Wall  Street?  in  New 
York.  Greg  says  the  man  descended  on  Kimberley  six 
weeks  ago,  from  there,  with  no  one  knows  how  many 
millions,  and,  in  that  time,  has  actually  doubled  them. 
Everything  he  touches  turns  into  money!  He  " 

Still  the  girl  frowned,  her  level  brows  coming  slightly 
together  over  her  violet  eyes: 

"But,  don't  you  see,  Anne,  dear,  you  haven't  yet  given 

me  any  real  picture  of  him.  I  want  to  know "  She 

hesitated  an  instant.  "Anne,  is  he  young  or  old,  small  or 
large,  athletic  or  stupid,  blond  or  dark?  Is  he  a  sportsman, 
a  reader,  or  just  an  idler,  when  he's  not  demoralizing  the 
market?  I  mean  —  is  he  anything  in  the  world  besides 
a  money-making  machine?  " 

Miss  Netherby  shook  her  head,  smiling.  "  How  direct 
we  are!  The  penalty  of  associating  with  four  strenuous 
brothers!"  She  patted  the  girl's  rounded  arm.  "But 
Mr.  Ormsby's  a  lot  besides  what  I've  told  you:  for  one 

thing,  Greg  says Oh,  mother  dear,  do  come  and  see 

Marian:  it's  the  first  time  I've  ever  seen  her  with  her  hair 
up,  and  in  an  evening  gown!"  She  caught  the  resisting 
girl  in  her  arms.  "There,  mother,  you  and  dad  say  I'm 
pretty,  sometimes;  but  just  see  her!" 


TWO  ALIENS  IN  DURBAN  5 

Lady  Netherby  took  the  young  girl  in  her  arms  ten 
derly.  There  was  a  caress  in  that  gentle  pressure  more 
marked  for  the  suggestion  of  repression  which  the  older 
woman's  thin  face  habitually  bore.  She  touched  the 
girl's  soft  cheek,  smiled,  and  sighed. 

"Lady  Bam  and  Sir  Roger  will  take  care  of  you," 
she  said;  "and"  —  with  a  backward  glance  from  one  fair 
blushing  face  to  the  other  —  "as  an  older  sister,  Anne, 
you  must  be  very  watchful.  This  is  her  first  evening  in 
South  Africa." 

The  girl  turned  more  fully  toward  her.  "Why,  Lady 

Netherby,  you  surely  don't  fancy "  She  breathed 

deeply  and  squared  her  slim  shoulders  boyishly:  "With 
you  and  Lord  Netherby  and  Anne,  I'm  really  back  in 
England.  Africa's  fascinating,  from  what  little  I've 
seen  of  it.  I'm  sure 

"That  we  shall  keep  you  quite  safe,  Roland,  myself, 
and  Anne." 

"And  Greg,"  Anne  laughed.  "Don't  forget  Greg," 
she  warned. 

"Yes,"  Lady  Netherby  smiled,  "and  Greg." 

"Though  he  won't  be  needed  for  that"  Anne  boasted, 
" for  I'm  really  old  now,  mother.  I'm  engaged" 

"But  that  must  not  make  you  heedless,"  said  her 
mother.  "Greg  I  know  and  trust,  as  I've  showed  you 
both.  And  his  friends  are  Englishmen.  But  Lady  Bam 
has  included,  this  evening,  an  American,  and" —  she 

frowned  slightly  —  "  so  many  Americans  are But 

we  will  trust  Lady  Barn's  discernment.  He's  undoubtedly 
all  that  she  believes." 

"Oh,  do  tell  me  something  of  what  she  believes,  Lady 


6  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

Netherby.  Anne  says  he's  to  take  me  in,  and  it's  such 
a  help  to  know  something  in  advance  about  the  man 
who's  going  to  take  you  in." 

'By  Jove!  you  two  are  visions,"  a  man's  voice  broke 
in.  "But  come:  rickshaw's  ready.  Got  it  for  your 
benefit,  Miss  Langmaid.  A  rickshaw's  South  African, 
and  more  suitable  for  your  first  evening  than  a  taxi- 
cab." 

"It's  Greg,"  Anne  laughed.  "Come  in,  eavesdropper, 
who's  punished,  by  over-hearing  us  talking  about  Mr. 
Ormsby  and  not  yourself." 

"Right  O,"  Bradbroke  laughed,  gallantly  raising  his 
fiancee's  hand  to  his  lips.  "About  Ormsby  now:  he's 
quite  in  a  class  by  himself.  That's  all  I'm  going  to  tell 
you  of  him  —  that  he's  very  much  all  right,  and  that 
he's  undoubtedly  standing  on  the  club  steps,  wondering 
what's  become  of  us,  provided  no  one's  told  him  that 
people  I  take  anywhere  are  always  late.  Oh,  I  say, 
Lady  Netherby,  you  mustn't,  you  know;  it's  perfectly 
proper  for  the  girls  to  come  with  me  without  a  maid.  In 
England,  I  know.  But  this  is  South  Africa.  Come, 
Anne!  Miss  Langmaid,  look  lively!"  He  nodded  his 
closely  cropped  head  in  mock  severity,  and,  gathering 
up  what  little  was  to  be  carried,  led  the  way. 

Anne  smiled  as  she  looked  after  his  long,  slender, 
square-shouldered  figure,  the  trim  waist,  the  dark  head 
held  well  back,  the  lithe,  elastic  step,  the  "cavalry  swing," 
which  always  harked  back,  in  her  thoughts,  to  the  days 
when  he  had  served  his  country  so  dashingly  in  the  Kaffir 
Rebellion  and  the  Boer  war,  in  evidence  of  which 
hung  the  stars  upon  his  breast.  Handsome  and  debon- 


TWO  ALIENS  IN  DURBAN  7 

aire  was  Gregory  Bradbroke.  Whatever  his  inner  self 
might  pronounce  in  the  way  of  verdict  on  him,  it  de 
tracted  nothing  from  the  charm  of  his  lean  face,  or  his 
fine  eyes  of  the  colour  of  burnt  wood,  which  told  as 
little  of  inner  secrets  as  his  clean-cut,  smiling  lips.  What 
he  suffered,  he  suffered  bravely.  Anne  might  well 
have  been  excused  for  the  light  which  shone  in  her 
dark  eyes,  for  Bradbroke  had  been,  and  still  was,  the 
source  of  more  than  one  head  full  of  vain  and  girlish 
dreams. 

"Isn't  he  a  dear?"  she  smiled  to  Marian,  as  they  fol 
lowed  him  down  the  path  to  the  waiting  rickshaw. 
"We'll  imagine  it's  a  taxicab,  dear,  and  that  this  is 
Piccadilly  Circus  instead  of  Essenwood  Road,  London 
instead  of  Durban,  England  instead  of  South  Africa. 
Something's  got  to  bring  it  about  for  us,  Marian!" 
Then,  with  a  sudden  bitterness  which  knew  no  reserve, 
though  it  proffered  no  explanation,  "We've  got  to  have  it: 
we  can't  go  on  this  way  much  longer!"  Her  hand  had 
found  the  young  girl's  with  a  sudden,  fierce  strength, 
then  relaxed  as  suddenly.  Greg  had  reached  the  rick 
shaw,  and  they  had  come  up  with  him.  In  another 
instant  they  had  entered  it,  with  Anne  laughing  some 
comment  a  little  too  brilliantly;  and  they  were  on  their 
way. 

It  was  one  of  those  matchless  nights  in  February:  the 
air  as  soft  as  an  American  or  an  English  June,  the  African 
moon  a  bare,  golden  horn  flung  high  on  a  cloudless,  star- 
gemmed  sky.  There  was  hardly  a  breath  of  wind,  and 
what  there  was,  welled  in  from  the  Indian  Ocean,  which 
slept  at  the  foot  of  the  already  sleeping  street.  It  was 


8  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

Durban,  the  city  of  apparently  endless,  almost  oppressively 
prosaic  peace. 

Anne  leaned  wistfully  against  Greg's  shoulder,  and 
he  pressed  her  hand  as  if  reading  her  mood  from  her 
silence  and  her  averted  eyes. 

And  Marian,  watching  until  she  became  aware  of  her 
scrutiny,  saw  that  wistfulness  and  the  man's  response 
to  it.  Suddenly,  then,  she  felt  very  much  alone:  no,  this 
was  not  England.  Instead,  it  was  a  land  of  enigmas,  of 
unreality:  or,  rather,  it  was  a  land  of  realities  too  subtle 
to  be  held  or  even  to  be  detected,  fully,  by  the  Occidental 
mind.  Just  before  she  had  sailed  from  England  to 
become  Anne  Netherby's  guest  for  a  month,  at  Durban, 
she  had  heard  one  of  her  father's  friends  say: 

"In  Buluwayo,  in  Matabeleland,  there's  a  statue  of 
Cecil  Rhodes  staring  into  the  northward  over  Africa. 
I've  seen  it,  and  always  thought  he  ought  to  have  looked 
south:  there's  more  to  see"  She  had  heard  him  say  that, 
and  it  had  puzzled  her.  But  she  understood  better  now: 
already  had  come  to  her  the  first  touch  of  the  unceasing, 
never-to-be-answered  riddle  of  South  Africa.  Nothing 
had  voiced  it  to  her  through  the  unbroken  silence. 
Indeed  —  and  she  half  felt  it  —  the  very  silence  had 
spoken  it  to  her  well-nigh  aloud.  She  had  heard  it,  and 
it  was  still  addressing  her.  And  she  wondered  what  it 
would  say  to  her,  what  it  had  already  said  to  Anne. 
Beyond  question,  Anne  had  changed  much  since  coming 
to  South  Africa.  That  was  patent.  Marian  had  seen 
it  at  once.  This  was  not  the  Anne  of  England,  or  the 
Anne  who  had  written  those  happy  letters  from  Durban. 
That  Anne  had  been  carefree.  This  Anne  was  desperate, 


TWO  ALIENS  IN  DURBAN  9 

And  what  was  to  flow  from  her  desperation?  Nothing 
outre,  the  girl  told  herself,  for  Anne  would  never  lend 

herself  to  that.  But  desperation  and  South  Africa ? 

Covertly,  as  the  rickshaw  slid  by  each  street-lamp,  the 
girl  fell  to  studying  Bradbroke's  profile:  if  worse  came  to 
worst,  what  could  be  expected  definitely  from  Gregory 
Bradbroke?  She  compared  his  graceful  slenderness  with 
her  brothers'  bulk,  and  remembered  their  agreeing, 
with  youthful  sageness,  that  in  a  street-fight,  "nothing 
counted  so  much  as  a  chap's  weighing  fourteen  stone." 
She  was  young  enough  to  remember  that  without  smiling, 
and  sufficiently  a  judge  of  physique  to  set  Bradbroke's 
weight  at  two  stone,  and  probably  three,  under  that. 
And,  back  of  the  estimate  and  through  it,  she  was  asking 
herself  if  Bradbroke  could  take  the  right  care  of  Anne. 

And  the  silence,  which  had  seemed  to  release  her  for 
a  moment,  pressed  down  again.  There  was  no  relief 
from  it  now:  no  sound  behind  them  or  before;  even  the 
"boy,"  bending  low  before  the  following  rickshaw, 
seemed  to  slide,  incapable  of  sound.  Silence,  deep  and 
unending.  What  did  it  presage?  What  lay  within  it? 
Again,  the  girl  was  aware  of  a  strange,  fateful  loneliness, 
that  and  something  else,  suddenly  uppermost  —  an  un- 
nameable  fear  for  Anne,  who  seemed,  as  suddenly,  very 
far  from  her.  To  whom  could  she  turn,  in  this  ill-boding 
isolation?  To  some  one  she  must  turn!  But  to  whom? 
She  was  utterly  alone,  an  alien  in  Durban !  And  the  fact 
and  the  weight  of  her  need  pressed  so  heavily  that  she 
hardly  heard  Bradbroke's  laughing  whisper: 

"Here  we  are,  Miss  Langmaid,  and  there  he  is,  waiting 
just  as  I  said!" 


10  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

"Who?"  she  asked,  automatically,  her  eyes  held  by 
the  figure  of  a  man  who  was  swiftly  descending  to  them. 

"Who?"  Bradbroke's  whisper  demanded  derisively. 
"Why,  the  fourteen-stone  Human  Mint,  of  course! 
John  Ormsby,  that  big  chap  just  coming  down  the  steps!" 


CHAPTER  H 

EXILES 

IN  THE  half-light,  and  under  cover  of  the  introduc 
tions,  she  saw,  at  first,  only  a  towering  outline,  beside 
which  Greg's  grace  gained  a  still  more  significant 
slenderness.  Yet  the  American  stood  as  easily  as  the 
slighter  Englishman.  Used  as  she  was  to  splendidly  fit 
human  animals,  the  girl  approved  the  American's  poise, 
the  width  and  the  lines  of  his  shoulder,  and  their  depth, 
and  the  swell  of  his  sleeve,  which  she  divined  rather 
than  saw,  just  below  the  tip  of  his  shoulder,  when  he  gave 
her  his  hand.  She  wondered  if  his  eyes  went  well  with 
that  wonderful  physique  of  his.  So  many  times,  in  this 
way,  men  had  disappointed  her. 

She  little  realized  the  detail  of  her  scrutiny,  and  that 
she  was  promising  herself  still  further  examination,  when 
they  should  come  into  the  light  and  he  talked  with  her. 
What  would  be  choose  to  talk  about,  she  next  asked 
herself.  Himself,  probably.  She  felt  less  tense,  now, 
less  nervous,  less  fearful  —  singularly  enough  —  even  for 
Anne.  She  could  philosophize  a  little  on  the  probable 
conceit  of  a  man,  who,  at  such  an  early  age  —  she  con 
ceived  that  he  might  be  in  his  late  twenties  —  had  won  a 
title  so  vulgar  yet  so  eloquent  as  the  "Human  Mint." 

She  had  met  few  American  men,  only  hah*  a  dozen 
whom  she  could  remember;  and  they  had  been  scholars, 

11 


12  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

thin,  narrow-chested,  and  nervous,  as  she  had  been  led 
to  believe  all  Americans  were.  But  this  American 

She  looked  up  at  him  again.  .  .  .  They  were 

ascending  the  steps,  and  he  was  cautioning  her,  quite 
needlessly,  she  thought,  about  the  turn.  Yes,  he  was 
not  at  all  like  the  scholars.  Her  heel  caught  in  the 
broken  cement  of  the  first  landing,  and  she  found  herself 
steadied  by  an  arm  suddenly  as  solid  as  the  preparation 
on  which  they  stood. 

"Fourteen  stone,"  she  remembered.  "Did  you  row  at 
college?"  she  heard  herself  asking,  to  her  own  amazed 
surprise. 

"Yes,  by  Jove,  and  loved  it!" 

His  voice  was  astonishingly  deep.  It  rolled  to  her,  upon 
her,  and  over  her,  one  of  those  all-pervading  voices 
which,  no  matter  how  called  upon,  suggest  an  inexhaust 
ible  reserve. 

Before  either  could  speak  again,  the  veranda  was 
before  them. 

"This  way,  Ormsby,"  Greg  said  lightly.  "Lady  Bam 
and  Sir  Roger,  forgive  me  for  making  them  all  late  this 
way.  This  is  Miss  Langmaid." 

Then,  after  a  little,  quick,  frank,  friendly  bow  from  the 
silvery-haired  woman,  who  stood  by  the  soldierly  Sir 
Roger,  Anne  led  the  way  to  the  dressing-room. 

When  they  emerged,  it  was  to  find  the  others  waiting: 
Hazel  EUicombe,  stately  and  tall,  her  white  throat  a 
pillar,  her  breast  a  bank  of  snow;  beside  her,  Catherine 
Hetheridge  smiled  indolently  toward  Shirley  Framleigh, 
in  deserved  admiration,  for  the  less  statuesque  beauty  had 
the  features  of  the  Greek  and  the  magnificent  hair  and 


EXILES  13 

eyes  of  the  highest  type  of  Jew.  Anne  nodded  all  'round 
to  them,  but  held  Marian  for  a  moment: 

"Just  a  word  of  warning,"  she  whispered  laughingly. 
"Hazel  and  Shirley  are  what  they  look  like,  but  let 
Catherine  Hetheridge  talk  until  you  think  you've  gauged 
her.  That's  Shirley  over  there  giggling  to  Sir  Roger," 
Anne  raced  on;  "pretty  soon,  she'll  tell  you  how  pale 
you  look;  and  she'll  really  be  anxious  about  it  and  ask 
you  to  play  tennis.  Beat  her,  as  you  value  my  friendship. 
I've  lost  to  her  every  time.  Eh,  Shirley,  haven't  I?  I 
was  just  telling  Marian  that  you  teach  me  tennis  every 
time  I  play  with  you." 

The  giggling  changed  to  absolutely  frank  and  genuine 
laughter.  "Sorry,  Anne,  dear;  but  you  really  don't 
play  enough  to  —  play.  Do  you  play,  Miss  Langmaid? 
How  delightful!  To-morrow?  At  five?  How  dear  of 
you!  No  doubt  your  racquet's  here.  Or  shall  I  bring  an 
extra  one?" 

"If  you  will,"  said  Marian,  amused  and  eager.  She 
had  the  wrist  of  a  boy,  and  she  knew  it.  Loring  and 
Roger,  her  brothers,  had  seen  to  that.  She  was  safe, 
she  felt,  even  when  facing  such  an  enthusiast  as  Miss 
Framleigh  clearly  was. 

"Hugh,"  Anne  was  bowing  to  a  tall,  bronzed,  grave  man 
who  had  been  waiting  — "Marian,  this  is  Hugh  Chadwell, 
who'll  let  you  ride  his  worst  pony,  if  you  will." 

Chadwell  bowed.  "Delighted.  No,  beg  pardon,  Miss 
Langmaid,  I'll  give  you  my  favourite,  and  ride  the  other 
beast  myself." 

He  bowed  again  from  his  waist,  and  made  way  for 
Carstairs  and  Jem  Fraser,  who,  with  Brett  Paxton,  was 


14  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

introduced  by  Lady  Bam,  the  girl  receiving  three  more 
bows,  simultaneously  given,  from  three  more  waists,  and 
very  trim  waists  they  were,  too.  In  fact,  the  young 
girl  was  struck  by  the  general  presentability  of  these 
three,  and  Chadwell,  who  had  preceded  them.  Man  for 
man,  they  were  well  set-up,  as  Greg  was,  and  like  him,  even 
distinguished  in  feature  and  manner.  She  might  have 
met  them  at  any  one  of  the  houses  on  her  mother's  list 
at  home.  She  would  have  met  them.  There  would  have 
been  no  doubt  of  it.  Mammas,  she  told  herself,  would 
have  been  kind  to  them.  And  the  daughters  of  these 
mammas Yes,  Messrs.  Chadwell,  Bradbroke,  Car- 
stairs,  Paxton,  and  Fraser  would  undoubtedly  be  spoiled, 

if  set  down  in  England.  Yet,  here  in  South  Africa 

The  girl  looked  from  one  face  to  the  other,  to  find  them 
all  at  ease,  frank,  interesting,  and  brown.  Attractive, 
certainly.  Paxton  and  Carstairs  seemed  the  more  brilliant ; 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  Chadwell,  apparently  the  oldest, 
offered  her  the  more  marked  deference;  and  Jem  Fraser, 
blue-eyed  and  with  lips  tilting  in  ready  laughter,  had  his 
attraction  too.  They  were  distinctive,  these  Englishmen 
of  South  Africa.  Yet  each,  as  in  the  case  of  Gregory 
Bradbroke,  lacked 

"You'll  disconcert  them,  Marian,  if  you  look  at  them 
so  frankly,"  Anne  whispered  swiftly,  smiling,  "for  they're 
not  used  to  it.  Moreover,  since  they  so  evidently  take 
to  it,  you'll  have  Shirley  and  Hazel  Ellicombe  up  in  arms." 

"What  nonsense!"  the  girl  whispered  back.  "I  was 
simply  comparing  them  with " 

"Greg.  Yes,  I  know.  They're  not  nearly  up  to  him, 
are  they!  There,  Lady  Barn's  allotting  us.  She's  coming 


EXILES  15 

over  with  Mr.  Ormsby.  Now,  you'll  have  a  chance  to 
find  what  he's  like.  He's  only  'The  Human  Mint,'  so 
far." 

The  girl  did  not  answer,  for  the  big  man  was  standing 
before  her.  He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  that  he  was 
among  people  who  knew  each  other  very  well  and  himself 
scarcely  at  all.  He  stood  restfully  at  ease,  one  straight  line 
from  head  to  heel.  She  saw  that  he  was  taller  even  than 
Chadwell.  His  eyes  were  brown  or  a  very  dark  gray, 
with  a  frankness  of  glance  which  robbed  their  address  of 
anything  not  pleasurable.  His  dark  hair  curled  a  little. 
His  face  was  big-boned,  the  features  strongly  marked.  He 
seemed  lean,  as  if  in  magnificent  condition.  He  was 
deliberate  without  being  in  the  least  "heavy."  She 
wanted  to  hear  his  voice  again,  and  she  wondered  if  it 
would  be  as  deep  and  full  as  when  Greg  had  presented 
him  to  them,  at  the  sidewalk.  She  forgot  and  forgave 
him  his  money,  except  to  resent,  in  a  way  which  sent 
the  blood  to  her  soft  temples,  his  having  been  nicknamed 
so  distastefully :  he  was  not  at  all  what  those  appellations 

suggested.  She  could  not  imagine !  She  waited  for 

him  to  speak. 

He  did  not  do  so  at  once.  He  was  not  ready.  He  was 
mutely  thanking  the  woman  who  had  attired  her  in 
the  modest  gown  —  sweet,  modest,  and  simple,  like  her 
youth.  He  was  thinking  that,  if  he  could  just  stand  and 

look  down  at  her Her  hair  was  very  full  and  soft. 

It  flowed  away  from  what  tried  to  restrain  it.  It  was  not 
merely  yellow:  it  had  the  rare,  glinting  red  of  gold.  Her 
face  was  a  perfect  oval.  Her  low  forehead  was  broad. 
Her  carriage  both  appealed  and  commanded.  She  had 


16  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

a  thoroughly  distinctive  little  chin.  A  dimple  danced 
just  beyond  where  the  marvel  of  her  lips  ended.  There 
was  no  describing  the  colour  which  bathed  her  soft  cheeks. 
But  her  eyes  were  deep,  deep,  deep,  shy  and  gentle,  like 
English  violets.  That  was  it!  It  had  come  to  him  with 
so  sudden  an  inspiration  that  he  felt  he  must  tell  her  about 
it.  Her  colour  rose,  and  she  lifted  slender  fingers  to  her 
widow's  peak  as  if  the  flood  frightened  her  and  she  wished 
to  hide  its  radiance  from  his  eyes.  Instantly,  he  knew  the 
remorse  of  one  who,  unwittingly,  has  committed  a  felony. 
Lady  Bam  saved  them  both  by  leading  the  way  with 
Jem  Fraser  into  the  dining-room. 

There,  under  the  softer  but  more  adjacent  illumination 
of  the  candles,  the  girl  realized  that^he  was  even  less  than 
she  had  thought  like  her  earlier  American  acquaint 
ances.  For  his  face  was  brown  and  red  at  once. 
But  he  seemed,  suddenly,  to  have  become  old  and  severe. 
She  said  to  herself: 

"He  must  be  nearly  thirty-five."  Then,  for  he  had 
smiled  quickly  and  his  every  feature  had  shared  it,  she 
corrected,  "I  mean  thirty,  or  twenty-eight." 

He  thought,  "She's  not  over  eighteen!"  He  meant 
that  he  was  glad  that  one  of  his  antiquity  had  been 
chosen  to  take  care  of  her.  "Thank  God,  she's  so  fem 
inine!"  Aloud  he  said,  "I  wonder  how  many  find  what 
they  come  for,  in  South  Africa. "  He  looked  around  the 
table,  with  his  free,  unhurried  glance,  and  waited. 

His  poise  had  its  effect  on  her,  and  she  smiled 
quietly. 

"I  was  thinking  the  same  thing  —  I  mean  asking  myself 
the  same  question.  I'm  afraid  that  many  find  only 


EXILES  17 

sorrow  and  disappointment  —  if  what  one  hears  is  true. 
But  these  men  have  evidently " 

He  nodded.  "Yes,  how  happy  they  look!  We're 
strangers,  almost,  to  them,  so  far,  and  that  gives  us  a 
little  latitude  in  comparing  opinions,  particularly  since 
our  gossip  is  complimentary.  So,  we  can  go  ahead! 
See  that  fellow,  for  example.  I  don't  remember  his  name, 
but " 

His  almost  invisible  gesture  indicated  young  Jem 
Fraser,  who  was  dilating  on  some  shooting  he'd  just 
done  "up  country";  and  both,  watching  the  glow  in  the 
boy's  fine  eyes,  smiled. 

"Not  bad.  Not  at  all  bad,  old  chap,"  Carstairs  broke 
in.  "I  admit  birds  are  all  well  enough  in  their  way; 
but  come  north  with  me  —  not  very  far  either,  mind, 
and  we'll  do  the  antelope.  Take  you  off  with  me,  next 
week,  you  and  Paxton." 

"And  miss  the  best  of  the  cricket?"  Paxton  demanded. 
He  was  in  his  late  twenties,  but  his  laugh  lightened  his 
moody  eyes,  and  relaxed  his  teeming  nerves.  "Give 
up  cricket  for  hunting?  No,  indeed!" 

Chadwell  turned  to  Lady  Bam  at  his  left:  "Dissuade 
them,  please;  we  need  'em  too  bad  for  the  club  theatricals. 
I'll  look  after  Paxton  myself.  He's  writing  the  lyrics, 
and  I'm  on  the  lines,  and  he  knows  I  won't  let  him  out 
of  my  sight." 

"I  surrender,"  laughed  Fraser.  "It's  not  often  one's 
so  appreciated  during  life.  Must  be  acknowledged. 
Succumb,  Carstairs.  Hugh's  adamant.  But" — with  a 
smile  which  included  the  entire  table — "when  you  see 
us  on  the  boards,  you'll  wish  Hugh'd  let  us  go." 


18  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

Miss  Ellicombe  had  waited.  "The  races,  remember, 
come  a  week  earlier  this  year.  The  track's  absolutely 
perfect.  And  Gerald  Trennery's  bringing  his  string  up 
from  the  Cape  entire.  You  know  what  I  mean,"  she 
remonstrated;  "you  men  will,  anyway,  so  don't  be  so 
giggly,  Shirley.  I  mean  he's  going  to  bring  all  his  string." 

"Of  course  we  understand,  Hazel,"  soothed  Catherine 

Hetheridge.  "We  were  merely Do  we  strike  you 

as  terribly  good-for-nothing,  Mr.  Ormsby!"  she  asked 
suddenly.  She  was  tall  and  willowy,  a  little  past  her  first 
beauty  and  relying,  now,  on  a  blase  leisureliness  of  manner 
for  her  charm.  She  ignored  Marian  Langmaid,  and,  as 
far  as  letting  her  eyes  rest  on  him,  the  big  man,  too.  "Yes, 
I  know  we  do,"  she  went  on.  "You  are  so  —  what  shall 
I  say?  superiorly  energetic,  in  the  States."  Still,  she 
did  not  look  at  him.  She  seemed  to  be  speaking  uncon 
sciously,  to  be,  in  fact,  merely  thinking  aloud,  as  if  she 
had  happened  to  find  the  American  a  tenant  of  her  idle 
mind  for  an  idle  moment;  the  whole  matter,  the  most 
inconsequential  of  incidents.  So  that  there  was  not  the 
least  flattery  in  her  address,  as  little,  in  fact,  as  in  what 
she  had  said. 

And,  while  the  girl  at  his  side,  catching  the  little 
fling  in  the  words  and  knowing  that  the  taunt  was  meant 
to  allure,  waited,  the  big  man  smiled,  and  said  with  his 
singular  directness: 

"I  don't  know  whether  we're  energetic  or  not.  We 
get  things  done,  and  have  a  good  time  doing  it.  That's 
our  National  Game.  I  don't  know  much  about  yours 
down  here,  so  far;  but  I  judge  it  makes  all  of  you  just  as 
comfortable." 


EXILES  19 

It  was  not  what  Catherine  had  expected.  And  she 
had  expected,  as  little,  that  he  should  give  her  only  the 
briefest  of  glances  while  delivering  it.  She  leaned  forward 
a  little,  resting  her  elbow  on  the  cloth  of  the  table,  and 
though  she  knew  that  the  device  would  be  patent  to  every 
one  of  the  women,  raised  a  beautifully  rounded  arm  until 
it  formed  a  wondrous  support  for  her  delicately  pointed 
chin. 

"Really,  now,  do  you  think  so?  Down  here,  we  — 

well "  She  looked  away  from  him  again.  "We 

hear  so  much  of  what  the  Times  calls  your  'restless 
energy.'  '  She  sent  her  blue  eyes  idly  back  to  him.  She 
knew  that  they  were  unusual  eyes.  The  superintendent 
of  the  Crown  Deep  Mine,  after  trying  to  read  his  heaven 
in  them,  had  told  her  that  they  were  just  the  colour  of 
the  blue  soil  about  Kimberley;  but,  since  that  scientific 
and  technical  young  man  had  added  the  word  "diamond- 
iferous,"  his  assay  had  not  helped  him,  for  other  gazers 
into  those  limpid  crystals  had  called  them  hard. 

But  she  had  forgotten  the  superintendent's  double 
entendu,  and  now  devoted  her  oddly  blue  eyes  as  she 
rarely  did.  "I'm  sure  that  you  are  all  frightfully  ener 
getic,  "  she  confided  to  the  swell  of  her  arm  as  it  flowed 
into  her  elbow.  "The  Times  is  always  right." 

The  American  smiled  on  the  table  generally.  "I 
wrote  a  letter  to  its  editor  once:  he  had  'run'  an  editorial 
which  described  Harvard  as  a  university  ruled  by  frater 
nities." 

"And,"  Catherine  interrupted  satirically,  "you  in 
structed  him.  It  must  have  been  a  pleasure  —  that!" 

"It  was:  all  I  did  was  to  tell  him  that  there  were  no 


20  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

fraternities  there,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  strays  no 
one  ever  heard  of,  and  hadn't  been  for  probably  a  good 
thirty  years." 

"Meaning ?"  she  asked  without  interest. 

"That  I  think  the  Times  may  be  just  as  mistaken  when 
it  describes  our  Energy  as  our  National  Calamity." 

She  shook  her  head.  "I'm  afraid  you're  terribly 
brainy  as  well  as  energetic,  for  I  can't  follow  you.  Hugh," 
turning  to  Chad  well,  "get  him  to  try  to  explain  what  he 
means  to  you,  some  time,  then  tell  me  what  you  make 
of  it.  Lady  Bam,  why  don't  we  form  a  woman's  club, 
and  have  a  room  like  this  in  it?  It's  really  exquisite." 

She  had  addressed  the  older  woman  with  the  same, 
lazily  uninterested  manner  which  she  had  employed  on 
the  American;  then,  as  if  she  had  forgotten  that  she  had 
addressed  either,  smiled. 

During  the  talk  which  followed  —  Chadwell  had  rallied 
with  a  promise  to  get  an  explanation  from  Ormsby,  and 
Lady  Bam  had  seconded  Catherine's  recognition  of  the 
room  —  the  American  turned  to  the  girl  beside  him : 
"You've  not  been  down  here  long,  Miss  Langmaid.  I 
guess  that,  at  once." 

She  smiled  at  his  use  of  the  word  "guess,"  finding  it  so 
proverbially  American.  But  she  won  a  question  from  his 
frank  statement. 

"Why  do  you  fancy  that  I  have  come  recently?" 

"Because  all  this  is  as  novel  to  you  as  it  is  to  me. 
By  Jove!  it's  not  like  anything  either  of  us  expected  to 
find  here,  so  far  away  from  any  big  centre,  in  fact  any 
where  in  South  Africa!  That's  straightaway  evident.  I 
know  it  was  provincial  of  me,  but  I  expected  to  find 


Durban  like  —  well,  like  any  other  little  town  of  its  size; 
whereas" — he  swung  his  alert  eyes  over  the  table — "it's 
much  like  what  you've  seen  in  London,  and  I've  seen 
there  and  in  Boston  and  New  York." 

He  waited.  Then,  since  she  did  not  answer  at  once,  "  I 
wonder  how  long  they've  been  down  here  —  I  mean  in 
South  Africa.  Of  course  I  don't  mean  Miss  Netherby. 
The  others.  Lady  Bam,  I  should  say  —  she  and  her 
husband  —  for  a  long  time,  though  it's  only  because  I 
know  Sir  Roger's  the  big  man  in  the  local  government. 
But  the  others,  I  wonder  what  started  them  here  from 
England,  and  what  keeps  them  here.  Why,"  his 
lowered  voice  suddenly  intense,  "how  they  must  long  for 
home  —  and  I  know  that  means  England.  How  these 
men  and  these  girls  must  downright  hunger  for  it!  Yet, 
South  Africa  seems  to  have  fascinated  every  one  of  them. 
You  see,  they  haven't  said  a  word  about  England.  It's 
all  'South  Africa.'  " 

"Yes,"  she  said,  thoughtfully,  "I've  noticed  that.  I 
wonder " 

Lady  Bam  rose  and  the  others  followed  to  the  veranda, 
first,  then  drifted  idly  into  the  lounge,  the  largest  of  the 
club's  private  rooms. 

The  Regent  Club  was  built,  after  the  manner  of  South 
African  clubs,  all  on  one  floor,  like  a  bungalow.  Its 
western  windows  looked  toward  the  barrier  of  the  veldt, 
on  which  they  gave  without  a  single  skyscraper  breaking 
the  vista  —  now  one  pile  of  dark,  foreboding  gloom.  The 
stars  hung  low,  then  were  blotted  out  by  the  embanking 
horizon.  The  American  thought  that  by  day  it  would 
be  much  like  the  skyline  about  Kimberley,  the  only  place 


22  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

he  knew,  so  far,  in  South  Africa.  In  fact,  there  was 
little  to  be  gained,  in  the  way  of  natural  reward  of  glance, 
from  those  wide-thrown,  western  windows;  and  he  led 
the  girl  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  long  room,  and  pointed 
to  where  the  lights  of  the  harbour  twinkled,  for  the  club 
was  on  an  elevation,  the  lights  on  the  swinging  vessels, 
Durban  Bay. 

She  stood  silent  beside  him.  He  knew,  or  thought  he 
knew,  how  her  thoughts  must  have  winged  north  and  east 
to  where  England  lay,  far  hidden  as  an  unknown  world's 
remotest  rim.  Was  she  lonely?  Had  the  strange,  almost 
tangible  intensity,  which  pervaded  the  atmosphere  about 
them, weighed  down  this  gentle,  English  girl?  He  feared 
it,  and  came  closer  to  her. 

"It's  a  wonderful  night,  Miss  Langmaid,  and,  if  you'll 
let  me  say  it,  we  must  take  its  peace  and  not  try  too 
seriously  to  plumb  South  Africa  and  what  it  stands  for 
to  these  people  who  have  chosen  it.  See  how  proud  they 
are  of  it:  they're  looking  from  these  windows  as  if  for  the 
first  time,  though  every  one  of  them,  women  and  men, 
must  know  the  view  by  heart!" 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "And  undoubtedly  we'd  accept  it  as 
they  do,  if  we  stayed  here  as  they  have.  But  why  don't 
they  speak  of  England,  Mr.  Ormsby?  I'd  like " 

She  hesitated,  then  went  on:  "I'd  like  to  talk  of  England 
with  them.  I'd  like  them  to  ask  me  about  it.  These 
girls  must  have  seen  just  what  I  have,  there.  I  mean 
gone  to  the  same  school,  my  school,  though  that  was  in 
Switzerland.  The  shops.  Why  don't  they  ask  me  about 
the  shops?"  She  smiled,  perhaps  at  her  own  simplicity. 
But  her  smile  faded,  before  the  thought  which  followed 


EXILES  23 

it.  "Why  don't  they  speak  about  home?  I'm  prepared 
to  love,  at  least  to  like,  South  Africa,  as  long  as  Anne  is 
willing  to  keep  me;  but  they  make  me  feel  that  I  am  from 
a  different  part  of  the  world  from  them;  as  if  we  had  noth 
ing  in  common;  as  if  the  same  things  did  not  interest  us, 
as  if  we  had  not  the  same  heritage." 

The  big  man  nodded,  "I  know,"  he  said  slowly,  as  he 
placed  a  chair  for  her,  grateful  that  she  sank  into  it.  "I 
know."  He  was  wondering  again  at  her  perfect  beauty, 
her  youth,  her  utter  genuineness  and  naturalness;  the  joy 
her  colouring  was  to  him;  the  tribute  which,  though  un- 
guessed  by  her,  she  had  yielded  him  with  her  confidence. 
"I  know,"  he  said  again,  though  unaware  that  he  was 
repeating  himself.  "I  crossed  the  continent  to  a  newly 
opened  country,  my  first  year  out  of  college.  I  thought 
the  opportunities  lay  there.  Maybe  they  did,"  he  added, 
with  an  ingenuousness  which  matched  her  own;  "but  I 
found  the  people  didn't  hark  back  to  what  I  did.  We 
didn't  like  the  same  things.  I  didn't  care  for  what  they 
did,  and  they  didn't  care  for  what  was  food  and  drink 
to  me:  the  little  things,  the  things  life's  made  up  of. 
Why,  I  got  so  homesick  to  have  some  one  tell  me  what 
a  wonderful  thing  it  was  to  take  a  run  through  the  Berk- 
shires,  or  give  some  detail  I'd  missed,  or  heard  before 
(I  wouldn't  have  cared  which),  of  the  intercollegiate 
track-meet,  or  the  race  with  Yale,  or  who  seemed  on  top 
at  the  tournament  at  Longwood!"  He  smiled  quickly. 
"You  see  how  empty  thirty  years  have  kept  me,  of  the 
big  things!  But,  by  George!  I  missed  it,  wanted  it! 
And  they  didn't  like  the  books  I  did,  out  there  in  that 
little  town.  I  don't  mean  I'm  a  great  reader;  but  you 


24  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

know  how  jealous,  or  zealous,  one  is  for  his  favourites! 
I  remember  I'd  just  found  Leonard  Merrick,  when  I  went 
out  there;  and  got  every  Tauchnitz  he  was  in,  took  all  of 
'em  along  with  me,  in  my  bag.  They  didn't  like  Merrick. 
Or  Conrad.  No,  not  even  Conrad!  You  know  his 
'Lord  Jim,'  and  isn't  it  wonderful?  Well,  maybe  I  was 
young  or  wrong  or  something;  but  the  crowd  out  there 
didn't  even  like  'Lord  Jim.'  And  I  was  homesick. 
I've  said  that  before,  I  know.  Homesick?  Gad,  the  salt 
water.  It's  the  lake  there,  and  fresh.  I  wanted  the 
salt  water!  I  remember,  when  I  started  back  east  again, 
and  saw  the  tidewater  on  the  Hudson,  I  cried  'Thalatta' 
to  myself,  pretty  much  as  the  Greeks  did,  you  remember, 
when,  after  they'd  been  so  long  inland,  in  Persia,  they 
came  at  last  again  to  the  sea!  I  was  homesick  for  the 
things  I  liked,  the  people  I  knew,  the  things  I  wanted 
to  talk  about."  In  his  earnestness,  he  leaned  a  little 
toward  her,  and  she  kept  her  position,  following  his  short, 
strong  gestures  with  her  eyes.  "I  beg  your  pardon," 
he  said  quickly,  "  I  didn't  mean  to  tell  you  so  much  about 
myself.  I'm  afraid  I've  sounded  preposterous." 

"Not  at  all,"  the  girl  answered  seriously,  "for  that's 
just  the  way  /  feel,  and  it  relieves  me  to  know  that  you 
understand."  Then,  thinking  it  might,  in  another,  be 
taken  for  criticism  of  Anne,  she  added  quickly:  "But  my 
homesickness  will  go  quickly,  Mr.  Ormsby.  You've  been 
in  England,"  she  went  on,  frankly  changing  the  subject, 
as  she  seemed  to  feel,  "don't  you  love  every  inch  of  it?" 

"Yes,  I  do.  In  a  way,  I  feel  three  thirds  English,  for 
there's  a  letter  in  the  British  Museum,  written  by  John 
Milton,  I  mean  Cromwell  wrote  it,  and  John  Milton  and 


EXILES  25 

one  of  my  ancestors  witnessed  it.  So,  I  say,  I  feel  English; 
I  mean,  of  course,  in  blood." 

"Really,"  she  laughed.  And  it  was  supreme  evidence 
of  his  faith  in  her  honesty  that  he  did  not  misunderstand 
her  mirth,  but  kept  on,  in  the  same  tone: 

"Yes.  He  was  a  Colonel  in  Cromwell's  army.  That 
branch  of  the  family's  living  in  Bimsted,  in  Hampshire. 
I  visit  them  for  a  little,  every  time  I  go  over.  I've  told 
them,  if  they  ever  want  to  sell  me  the  county,  I'll  give 
them  their  price  for  it  and  go  over  and  live  there  part 
of  every  year." 

"Oh,  my  fan!"  a  voice  said  woefully,  just  behind  them. 
It  was  Catherine  Hetheridge.  "There  it  is,  right  in  the 
way  of  the  next  foot,  on  the  sidewalk.  Hugh?  Why, 
yes,"  more  languidly,  "if  you  care  to,  Mr.  Ormsby."  She 
dropped  into  the  chair  the  big  man  had  left.  "Really," 
she  smiled  to  the  girl,  "he's  very  presentable,  isn't  he, 
for  an  American?  Money  makes  them  so  —  but  then," 
plucking  her  gown,  and  sinking  still  lower  in  the  chair, 
"I  should  be  careful,  I  fancy,  for  you  may  have  fared 
better  than  I,  in  your  acquaintance  with  Americans." 

She  turned  wearily  to  study  Marian  with  heavy -lidded 
eyes,  which  the  girl  met  quietly.  "I  haven't  met  many 
Americans,"  Marian  said,  "but  Mr.  Ormsby  seems  very 
English  to  me.  Doesn't  he  to  you?" 

Miss  Hetheridge  smiled  satirically,  "That's  the  Har 
vard  manner,  taught  them  most  painstakingly,  be  sure. 
They're  given  it  as  far  back  as  their  prep  schools.  Eng 
lishmen  as  instructors  there  and  in  the  colleges;  or  Ameri 
cans,  who've  taken  graduate  work  at  Oxford  in  order 
to  become  very  English.  Imitation's  the  sincerest  form 


26  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

of  flattery,  of  course;  but  how  ridiculous!  I'm  forgetting, 
though:  probably  you  fancy  Mr.  Ormsby.  Thanks  very 
much,  Mr.  Ormsby.  I  can't  think  how  I  managed  it, 
with  all  this  netting.  I  was  just  telling  Miss  Langmaid 
that  you  have  the  Harvard  manner,  which  you  like  so 
because  you  believe  it's  English.  Oh,  don't  mind  me. 
I  say  whatever  comes  into  my  head,  and  both  of  you 
might  as  well  become  used  to  it  now  as  later.  Did  you 
agree  on  your  views  of  us?  I  got  down  to  where  you 
both  wondered  why  we  came  here  in  the  first  place  and 
why  we  stay.  Did  either  of  you  make  that  out?  " 

"No,"  said  the  big  man,  with  a  directness  which 
matched  her  own.  "We're  still  wondering." 

Catherine  Hetheridge  smiled,  really  smiled,  for  the  first 
time  that  evening.  "There,  that's  very  clear-cut  and 
satisfactory.  I  believe  you  really  are  English,  though  I 
never  cared  greatly  for  Hampshire,  between  the  two  of 
us.  Oh,  dear,  I'm  forgetting  you  for  a  third  time,  dear 
Miss  Langmaid.  Forgive  me."  She  patted  the  girl's 
soft  arm.  "What  is  it  about  you,"  studying  Marian 
deliberately.  "You  have  the  faculty  of  making  people 
overlook  you.  I  wonder  how  you  achieve  it,  I  mean  do 
it.  How  angry  you  are,  Mr.  Ormsby !  If  I  were  a  man, 
you'd  fling  me  over  the  railing,  I'm  sure;  but,  as  it  is, 
you  won't  so  much  as  touch  my  fingers,  will  you?  But, 
I'm  forgetting  again.  Hugh,"  she  called  lazily,  "give  me 
a  cigarette,  there's  a  dear  chap."  Without  turning,  she 
carried  her  hand,  palm  upward,  over  her  right  shoulder. 
Chadwell  found  the  cigarette  and  held  the  match  for  her 
silently.  In  the  illumination,  her  arms,  shoulders,  face, 
neck  and  breast  flashed  from  the  dead  black  of  her  gown 


EXILES  27 

like  dull  ivory.  "There,  Hugh,"  she  smiled,  "now  run 
away  like  a  good  boy,  for  I've  just  made  Mr.  Ormsby 
furious,  and  he's  too  big  for  you  to  be  brought  into  it. 
I  was  just  going  to  tell  you  two  why  we  do  stay  on  here," 
she  resumed  to  the  girl  and  the  American.  "  It's  because, 

well "  She  stopped  to  send  a  swift  shaft  of  smoke 

upward  from  her  thrown-back  head.  "See  here,"  she 
broke  out,  intensely,  "in  a  year  or  two,  I  shall  marry  a 
man  whose  father  was  a  Jewish  transport-rider.  Do  you 
get  that?  Now,  why  should  I  marry  such  a  person? 
Doesn't  that  throw  some  light  on  the  subject?"  She 
held  them  a  further  moment  then  relaxed  and  laughed 
softly.  "You  don't  see  it  yet?  What  a  pair  of  children! 
Hugh,"  she  laughed  indolently  to  Chadwell,  who,  stand 
ing,  the  burnt-out  match  in  his  hand,  watched  her  som 
brely,  "they  don't  see  it's  just  simply  because " 

Some  one  struck  a  chord  on  the  piano.  "  'Mandalay ! ' 
' Mandalay,'  old  chap.  'Mandalay!'  "  came  in  chorus. 

"A  pleasure  deferred,"  said  Catherine  wearily.  "Brett 
Paxton's  going  to  sing." 

With  the  first  note,  the  English  girl  and  the  American 
were  sent  back  to  their  inquiry,  which  still  lacked  an 
answer.  For  Paxton's  voice  had  never  been  given  him 
to  waste  in  a  lost  corner  of  the  earth  like  Durban.  Sweet, 
rich,  mellow,  thrilling,  it  came  to  them,  a  great,  natural 
gift,  perfected  by  study  which  could  not  have  been  found 
south  of  the  equatorial  belt.  Indeed,  the  song  was  being 
rendered  so  rarely  that  the  two  might  never  have  heard 
it  before.  The  fifth  verse!  What  was  it?  His  voice, 
rare  as  it  was?  Or  was  it  something  in  the  singer,  some 
thing  greater,  more  intimate  even  than  temperament! 


28  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

They  hung  on  it,  as  did  the  others,  as  it  came  to  them  with 
articulation  so  perfect  that  they  seemed  to  see  the  written 
words: 

"I'm  sick  o'  wastin'  leather 

On  these  gritty  pavin'-stones, 
An'  the  blawsted  Henglish  drizzle 

Wykes  th'  fever  in  me  bones    .    .    ." 

The  singer  breathed. 

"Blawsted?  'o  syes  so?"  came  a  hoarse  roar  from  the 
street.  "Not  me!  Ner  you  neither!  You  an'  me's  all 
one:  you  styes  'ere  fer  w'at  keeps  me  'ere,  th'  passage 
money,  an'  wot  it  costs  to  keep  us  after  we've  got  'ome. 
That  an'  naught  else !  Hengli sh  drizzle  ?"  The  intruding 
voice  cried  fiercely.  "  *  Blawsted!  you  sye?  An'  you 
wild  for  it,  just  as  7  am!  Caren't  you  taiste  it?  An' 
aren't  it  sweeter  than  the  dust  an'  dirt  down  'ere?" 

Paxton  gasped,  and  leaned  across  the  piano.  Carstairs, 
on  the  stool,  stared  down,  motionless,  as  the  loose  leaves 
of  the  music  twisted,  uninterrupted,  to  the  floor. 

In  the  corner,  to  which  Bradbroke  and  Anne  Netherby 
had  followed  Shirley  Framleigh,  Hazel  Ellicombe,  and 
Jem  Fraser,  hands  went  to  ears,  as  if  to  shut  out  the 
sound. 

Bradbroke  had  sprung  up,  white  as  the  boy,  Fraser, 
who  glared  with  him  into  the  shattered  gloom.  Chad  well 
had  swung  to  Catherine's  side,  only  to  be  thrust  back 
as  she  sprang  up  fiercely,  all  her  languor  gone. 

Only  the  big  man  and  Marian  Langmaid  seemed 
impervious  to  the  strange  tension  which  had  settled  upon 
the  room.  And,  as  if  he  realized  this,  the  American  went 
to  the  piano,  a  panacea,  the  girl  thought,  in  the  long- 


EXILES  29 

strong  lines  of  his  body  and  the  confident  deliberateness 
with  which  he  moved. 

He  bent  over  the  silenced  singer.  "If  you  want,  I'll 
go  down  to  the  street,  and  prevent  any  more  interruption. 
Please  sing  again:  you've  got  such  a  bully  voice!" 

But  the  white-faced  singer  said  nothing.  To  the  big 
man,  he  seemed  to  have  petrified  all  in  an  instant;  and 
Carstairs,  who  held  the  stool  so  immovable  that  it  seemed 
a  part  of  his  rigid  body,  encouraged  the  impression.  What 
was  wrong  —  what  was  the  trouble  with  all  of  them? 

He  turned  to  Lady  Bam,  but  her  set  face  told  nothing. 
Then,  to  silent  Lord  Bam.  The  old  man's  eyes  were  sad. 

The  American  turned  back  to  the  piano,  and  Paxton. 
"I'll  give  you  a  bass  on  that,  if  you'll  let  me,"  he  said 
with  a  smile.  "I've  sung  it  a  lot  at  home.  It's  one  of 
my  favourites.  Come!"  Leaning  over  Carstairs'  lifeless 

shoulder,  the  big  man  struck  the  chord.  "Now " 

He  waited.  .  .  . 

And,  from  the  street,  mercilessly  clear,  though  from  far 
away  now,  came  the  voice  again,  this  time  in  a  crazy  lilt, 
yet  in  a  baritone  which  matched  Paxton's  tenor  in  quality : 

"I  wants  to  go  'ome  to  my  country. 

This  'ole,  it's  no  fit  plaice  for  me. 
I  wants  Grosvenor  Square,  Piccadilly, 

The  Strand,  the  Embankment,  the  Sea. 
I  wants  the  fresh  green  o'  old  England, 

To  rest  there,  an'  never  to  roam. 
My  Gawd,  I'm  that  'omesick  for  England 

It  'urts  me!    I  wants  to  go  'ome/" 

Paxton's  head  went  down.  He  caught  himself,  and 
staggered  away  from  the  piano.  Carstairs  followed  him 
into  the  nearest  darkness. 


30  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

There  was  a  fall. 

"It's  Miss  Netherby,"  said  some  one.  "Don't  crowd 
up!" 

And  Catherine,  with  a  shrill  laugh,  threw  herself  back 
into  the  chair  from  which  she  had  risen.  "I  fancy  you 
won't  need  my  explanation  now,  my  children,"  she  jeered  to 
Ormsby  and  the  girl  he  had  come  back  to.  "For  you  see, 
that  man  in  the  street's  told  it:  we  stay  on  here  because 
not  one  of  us  has  the  money  to  go  home  and  live  on. 
We're  exiles!  Lady  Bam,"  she  went  on,  in  the  same  mock 
ing  tone,  "y°ur  dinner's  been  exquisite.  Now,  Hugh, 
won't  you  ring  for  my  rickshaw.  I  want  to  go  'ome 
myself." 


CHAPTER  III 
SOUTH  AFRICA 

CONTRARY  to  all  Marian's  expectations,  Anne 
joined  her  in  the  morning-room,  just  before 
breakfast,  on  the  day  following,  with  a  smile. 
"For  it  will  be  easier  now,  dear,"  she  said.  "I  mean 
that  one  always  relaxes  after  he's  found  out.  Now  that 
you  know  us,  we  shan't  have  to  act  a  part  with  you,  and 
you'll  see  our  best  side."  She  smiled,  but  her  eyes  held 
their  look  of  weariness.  "Try  to  imagine  what  it  was  to 
us,  last  night,  when  that  man  in  the  street  began.  Greg 
said,  on  the  way  home,  that  they  ought  to  find  the  chap 
and  make  him  a  member  of  the  'Regent,'  he's  so  one  of 
them !  Hard,  hard  —  it's  harder  than  hard,  dear.  But 
it  was  as  hard  to  act  our  role  as  it  was  to  have  our  pretence 
detected.  You  didn't  —  of  course  you  couldn't  —  notice 
how  those  poor  boys  were  trying.  That  song,  which  I 
hate  even  the  name  of,  poor  Brett  always  has  to  sing  when 
visitors  are  about.  We  have  to  parade  him  as  our  one 
accomplishment;  but  it's  rough  on  him.  It's  not  his  fault 
that  he  has  those  vocal  chords  and  that,  just  before  his 
father  went  under,  Brett  was  completing  a  long  course  of 
study  under  the  best  teachers  that  money  could  inspire. 
That  was  before  he  had  any  idea  of  anything  but  life  in 
nice,  fit  lodgings,  somewhere  about  town,  marrying  some 
nice  girl  and,  when  the  property  came  to  him,  go  into  the 

31 


32  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

big  house.  Poor  Brett,  it  didn't  work  out  that  way:  his 
father  got  the  title,  and  a  mania  for  investing.  Every 
thing  went.  Brett  got  five  thousand  out  of  the  mael 
strom,  somehow,  and  came  off  here.  He'd  got  engaged 
by  that  time  and  told  the  girl  it  wouldn't  take  him  more 
than  a  year  at  most  to  quadruple  the  five  thousand  by 
investing  here.  That  was  five  years  ago,  and  Brett  was 
sanguine.  And  she  was  —  then.  Well,  Brett  didn't  make 
a  go  of  it.  His  five  thousand  went,  and  he  stayed  on  in 
South  Africa.  The  girl  got  less  and  less  sanguine,  and 
finally  married  some  one  else.  It  was  just  as  well  Brett 
didn't  marry  her,  though,  for  —  what  do  you  think?  she 
actually  had  the  hard-heartedness  to  send  him  a  picture 
of  herself  and  her  'oldest  boy,'  last  year!  Can  you  imag 
ine  any  one  doing  that?  And  poor  Brett  down  here,  work 
ing  and  trying  to  forget!"  Anne  swung  around  sharply, 
with  a  bitter  energy  almost  masculine.  "You'd  better 
take  breakfast,  Marian,  if  you  want  any."  She  led  the 
way. 

But,  in  the  breakfast-room,  she  began  again.  She  had 
beefc  wan  at  the  beginning,  but  now  her  eyes  flashed  and 
her  soft  cheeks  flamed.  "It  was  a  wonderful  picture. 
He  showed  us  it.  One  of  those  geniuses  of  photographers ! 
But  he  wasn't  to  blame:  he  didn't  know  what  she  was 
going  to  do  with  it.  She  was  perfectly  lovely,  that  girl  was, 
and  he'd  taken  her  looking  straight  at  you,  the  baby  too. 
The  boy  was  a  cherub.  And  the  way  Brett  mourned  over 
them!  He  told  me  once  that  they  didn't  'understand.' 
Evidently  she  didn't!  And  how  could  she  have  been 
expected  to  understand  South  Africa,  any  more  than  we 
understood  it  ourselves,  before  we  came  out  here,"  she 


SOUTH  AFRICA  33 

laughed  with  unreserved  bitterness.  "Not  precisely,  for 
we  did  come!  But,  about  Brett  and  the  girl  and  the 
picture:  I'm  only  trying  to  let  you  in,  so  that  you'll  be 
nice  to  him  and  make  a  lot  of  the  picture,  when  he  shows 
it  to  you,  as  he  will.  And  Brett's  only  one  instance  of 
why  a  good  chap  comes  out  here  and  stays.  Hugh  Chad- 
well's  the  same  way:  nice  regiment.  You  see  the  way  he 
carries  himself.  Then  something  wrong  with  the  busi 
ness  his  father  got  his  money  from.  The  girl  Hugh  left  is 
still  waiting,  so  he's  better  off  than  Brett  is,  though  not  a 
great  deal,  for  of  course  both  of  'em  know  by  this  time  that 
nothing  can  ever  come  of  it.  Carstairs,  too.  Prospects: 
A  girl!  Bankruptcy!  South  Africa!  Jem  Fraser  got  it 
younger  than  they  did,  and  he's  some  hope  left.  We  know 

that,  for  he's  indigo  blue  half  the  time.  And  Greg " 

She  stopped,  breathed,  then  went  on:  "I  might  just  as 
well  go  through  the  list:  you  don't  know,  and  you  can't, 
and  I'm  glad  of  it,  too,  what  it  is  to  be  engaged  to  the 
dearest  lad  in  the  world  and  yet  neither  of  you  see  the  least 
prospect  in  the  world  of  your  ever  marrying." 

"But,  dearest,"  the  younger  girl  interrupted,  tenderly, 
"I  thought  it  was  to  be  six  months  after  the  engagement 
was  announced?  " 

"It  is"  came  the  hysterically  laughed  answer;  "but, 
don't  you  see  we  don't  know  when  it  ever  can  be  an 
nounced,"  The  laugh  broke,  then  began  again,  bringing 
Marian's  arm  about  Anne's  neck.  "Don't  you  see  now? 
Don't,  Marian,  don't  kiss  me,  for  I'll  break  down,  if  you 
do,  and  I've  got  to  talk!  Don't  you  see,  Greg's  working 
his  heart  out  at  the  consulate?  It  makes  me  cry,  he 
comes  back  so  done.  If  he  had  money,  even  a  fraction 


34  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

of  what  Mr.  Osmsby  has,  for  example,  he'd  speculate, 
and  make  just  as  much  as  Mr.  Ormsby  does.  But,*as  it 

is "  Her  voice  caught,  for  a  moment,  then  she  went 

on:  "He  expected  —  we  all  did  —  that  his  uncle  would 
leave  him  his  money;  but  the  uncle  died  and  nothing  came 
of  it;  poor  Greg!"  She  caught  her  face  in  her  hands,  as 
if  trying  to  force  her  grief  back.  "  I'm  going  to  cry  any 
way,  and  I  shall  be  a  fright  now,  all  the  rest  of  the  day." 

"Anne,  Anne,  dearest,  don't " 

"Oh,  I  know  it's  wrong  of  me  to  tell  you  all  this. 
Rotten  bad  hospitality,  Greg  would  tell  me,  if  he  knew, 
and  he'd  be  right.  Poor,  dear  boy,  it's  not  his  fault  he's 
as  poor  as  I  am,  and  can't  make  money  any  faster  than 
dad  can!  Why,  when  we  were  there,  you  remember, 
Marian,  how  it  was,  in  Kent?  You  know  how  we  lived, 
what  we  had  .  .  .  ?  Greg's  family,  and  dad's?  You 
remember  how  it  was  then,  how  we  talked  of  all  that  was 
to  be?  Greg  was  going  into  the  Guards.  God  meant  him 
for  a  soldier.  What  a  one  he'd  made!  What  a  soldier 
he  did  make,  though  it  could  be  only  against  these  hor 
rible  natives  and  mussy  Boers!  Then  the  crash  came; 
something  about  some  properties  Greg's  father  and  dad 
were  both  in;  and  Greg's  father  died,  and  Greg  sold  out 
what  little  was  left;  and,  when  father  came  out  here  to 
South  Africa,  Greg  came  along.  I'm  not  sparing  us, 
Marian,  and  I  own  I'm  telling  you  now  not  so  much  for 
the  sake  of  showing  you  how  we  all  failed  here,  as  for  your 
sympathy.  There's  not  a  girl  out  here  I  can  talk  to  about 
home,  the  home  we  had.  They're  —  well,  just  as  you  see 
them,  a  great  deal  braver  than  I  am;  but  they  never  knew 
us  at  home,  never  saw  us  as  we  were.  Not  that  we're 


SOUTH  AFRICA  35 

not  about  all  alike.  I  don't  mean  that:  we  are; 
but "  She  made  a  gesture  with  her  hands. 

Marian  held  her  close.  "Don't,  dearie!  And  don't 
tell  me  any  more;  anyway,  not  now." 

"If  you'll  let  me,  I'd  rather  go  through  with  it,  though 
I'm  making  it  very  hard  for  you,  Marian,  and  I  know 
what  it  is  to  receive  confidences  that  hurt." 

"Only  because  I  feel  so  powerless  to  help  you,"  the  girl 
said,  with  touching  earnestness.  "If  you  want,  Anne,  tell 
me  the  rest,  though  I  wish  you'd  not." 

"There's  not  so  much  more.  But  this  next  will  sound 
very  vulgar  and  not  nice  to  you,  for  you're  just  out  from 
home,  and,  what's  more  even  than  that,  you  can't  fancy 
what  it  is  not  to  have  loads  of  money.  But,  when  we  got 
here  mamma,  and  dad,  and  Greg,  and  I  —  I  tried  to 
deceive  people:  we  were  'tourists,'  you  know.  It  was, 
'What  a  delightful  country  you  have  here!  So  odd  and 
interesting,  such  a  change  from  England.  Stay-at-homes 
are  so  provincial!'  I  told  these  girls  of  our  place,  back  in 
Kent,  of  our  dogs  and  horses,  this  and  that,  everything. 
And  they  were  quite  snippy,  and  didn't  ask  us  about  much, 
no,  not  even  here,  in  this  dirty,  disgusting,  little  place. 
Greg  would  come  back  from  his  work  at  the  consulate,  and 
tell  how  the  chaps  there  made  up  their  tennis  parties  and 
cricket  and  hunting,  and  left  him  out,  just  as  their  fathers 
left  dad  out,  and  their  mothers  and  sisters  left  out  mamma 
and  me. 

"  For  a  bit,  we  didn't  mind  it  —  rather  liked  it.  Then  it 
got  monotonous.  No,  that's  not  the  word,  but  you  know 
what  I  mean.  People  have  to  know  some  one,  even  here 
in  South  Africa.  And  I  began  to  unbend  a  bit,  told  them 


36  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

we  weren't  'going  home  quite  so  soon  as  we'd  thought  to.' 
We  'liked  Durban.'  But,  if  we  thought  that  would  mol 
lify  them,  we  were  mistaken,  for  their  tennis  and  cricket 
and  races  and  dinners  and  hunting  and  club  theatricals 
went  on  without  us,  just  the  same. 

"Then,  one  afternoon,  Catherine  Hetheridge  came  to 
call  on  me.  You've  seen  her,  and  can  fancy  how  she 
looked.  I  imagine  she  used  to  be  very  handsome.  The 
men  must  have  swarmed  after  her!  She  sat  down,  and 
said,  in  that  odd  way  of  hers,  just  as  if  she  didn't  care  at 
all,  anyway,  'Be  honest,  why  don't  you?  Own  up  you're 
way  down  on  your  luck,  and  have  come  here  to  make 
money  enough  to  live  on  at  home.  Oh,  I  know  per 
fectly.  And,'  as  I  gasped  and  tried  to  freeze  her,  'don't 
bother  so  much  telling  us  of  that  big  place  in  Kent.  It'll 
be  there  when  you  go  back;  and,  if  the  horses  and  dogs 
are  a  bit  old,  by  then,  you  can  get  others.  I  tell  you  / 
know  how  it  is.  We  all  do :  all  of  us,  out  here,  had  places 
once  —  at  home;  and  do  you  fancy  that  any  of  us  thought 
we'd  be  two  years  out  of  England,  when  we  came  here?' 
She  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed ;  and  the  worst  of  it 
was,  she  did  it  perfectly  openly,  with  a  bald  naturalness 
that  would  have  been  fine,  following  anything  else  in  this 
world.  Then,  her  lips  straightened  again:  she  came  on 
with:  'So,  I  say,  be  honest  about  it.  Come  in  with  us: 
you  might  as  well  now  as  later.  You'll  do  it  anyway.  Of 
course,  you've  seen  this  place  and  know  what  it  will  be 
like;  but  we  do  things  to  make  the  time  pass.  And  you 
can  help  us.'  She  looked  me  over  with  maddening  cool 
ness.  'We  can  use  you  and  your  looks  in  the  club  the 
atricals,  probably.'  Marian,  I  could  have  killed  her  for 


SOUTH  AFRICA  37 

that  'probably.'  But  instead  —  I  did  just  what  you've 
fancied:  I  went  into  the  club  theatricals.  So  did  Greg 
—  he  showed  he  could  teach  them  all,  from  the  start  — 
and  into  the  other  clubs.  The  fees  are  nothing.  All 
the  men  in  them  know  none  of  the  other  men  could  come 
in,  otherwise;  they  couldn't  come  in  themselves.  And 
mamma  and  dad  went  in.  It  was  the  only  way.  We 
made  the  best  of  it.  And  now,"  Anne  said  quietly,  though 
her  hands  clenched,  "we're  still  making  the  best  of  it. 
Write  you?  How  could  I  write  you  anything  except  what 
should  make  you  think  that  I  was  mad  over  South  Africa? 
I  know.  But  I  say  again,  in  my  place  you'd  have  done 
the  same." 

At  the  close  of  the  unhappy  story,  the  young  girl's  eyes 
remained  downcast.  Something  —  not  their  difference 
in  years  —  had  made  her  show  the  greater  emotion  at 
Anne's  confession.  Something?  South  Africa!  And  its 
influence  went  deep,  for  Anne's  eyes  were  dry;  no  tremor 
shook  her  whitened  face.  Marian's  cheeks  were  wet  with 
tears.  For  the  confession  had  been  too  sharp  and  sudden. 
Not  even  the  revelation,  at  the  Regent  Club,  had  prepared 
her  for  this;  not  even  Catherine's  crude  directness  had 
led  her  to  expect  such  an  attitude  on  the  part  of  Anne. 

"How  long  must  it  last?"  she  asked  slowly.  "I  mean 
this  —  exile?" 

Anne  shook  her  head  wearily.  "We've  stopped  asking 
each  other.  All  we  know  is  that  nineteen  out  of  every 
twenty  people  who  come  here,  as  we  did,  live  out  the  rest 
of  their  lives  in  South  Africa.  That's  our  only  prospect 
and  we're  facing  it.  What  else  is  there  for  us?  Dad's 
making  only  the  shamefulest  little;  mamma's  fast  get- 


38  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

ting  an  invalid  from  sheer  homesickness  and  sorrow;  and 
Greg,  poor  lad,  is  advanced  only  the  smallest  bit  every  year, 
just  nothing  to  match  his  own  needs,  to  say  nothing  of 
his  and  mine.  Why"  —  her  voice,  naturally  low  and  sweet, 
came  almost  harshly  — "  leaving  out  our  ever  getting 
to  England,  there's  not  the  vaguest  prospect  of  our  ever 
marrying  even  here  in  South  Africa!  We're  all  alike,  as 
Catherine  Hetheridge  told  me,  that  day:  Greg's  like 
Chadwell  and  Fraser  and  Paxton  and  Hilary  Carstairs; 
and  I'm  like  the  other  girls,  those  here  and  those  still 
waiting  in  England,  the  girls  that  were  left  behind." 

In  her  chair,  which  faced  the  breakfast  neither  had 
thought  of,  Anne  leaned  back.  Not  even  South  Africa 
had  given  her  power  to  endure  her  own  terrible  avowal. 
Or,  perhaps,  it  was  that  in  all  her  sad  thinking,  she  had 
never  before  chanced  on  such  an  accurate  statement  of  her 
hopelessness.  Her  head,  with  its  beautiful,  soft  hair, 
which,  for  its  duskiness,  Marian  so  envied,  went  down 
into  her  hands.  "I  can't  stand  it!  I  can't  take  it  as  the 
rest  do!  I  can't!  I  can't!  Sometimes,"  and  her  breath 
ing  was  pitiable,  "I  feel  that  /  don't  care  how  the  money's 
got,  so  long  as  Greg  gets  enough  of  it  for  us  to  marry  and  go 
home" 

"Anne,  Anne,"  a  voice  said.  Unnoticed,  Greg  had 
come  in. 

She  ran  to  him,  in  a  convulsion  of  feeling  so  abandoned 
that  the  girl,  whom  she  had  forgotten,  knew  not  what  to 
do.  "Greg,"  Anne  cried,  as  she  clung  to  him,  "why 
did  we  go  there  last  night?  Why  did  that  man  in  the 
street  sing  to  set  his  words  haunting  me?  Greg,  Greg, 
marry  me,  and  take  me  home!" 


CHAPTER  IV 
STRANDED 

WHEN  Greg  walked  down  the  drive  to  the 
street,  an  hour  later,  he  wondered  at  the 
effective  malice  of  the  fate  which  had  so  sud 
denly  and  so  marvellously  sharpened  his  sensibilities 
and  multiplied  his  objectivity  to  suffering.  Or  was 
it,  he  wondered,  only  that  he  was  realizing  his  fate 
better  now?  Yes,  it  was  that.  How  blind  and  weak 
he  had  been  —  though  those  disabilities  had  been  a 
kindness  —  not  to  see  himself  this  way  before !  For 
nothing  new  had  come  to  undeceive  him;  nothing 
faced  him  now  which  had  not  faced  him  before,  it  seemed 
for  centuries.  Even  Anne's  hysterical  weeping,  her  wild 
despair,  her  relinquishment  of  even  the  shallow  pretence 
of  hope  with  which  they  had  tried  to  deceive  themselves, 
though  so  fresh  and  terrible  to  him,  formed  no  revelation. 
Always  —  it  seemed  from  the  very  instant  of  their  arrival 
—  he  and  Anne  had  known  that  they  were  stranded  for 
ever  in  South  Africa!  The  folly  of  thinking  that  from 
such  a  centre  they  could  work  out  their  return!  They 
had  simply  crippled  themselves.  They  had  selected  the 
last,  instead  of  the  first,  of  all  corners  of  the  world.  With 
better  hope  of  success,  they  could  have  gone  north,  south, 
east  or  west,  yes,  better  have  stayed  in  England  itself. 
Any  land  would  have  been  surer  of  yielding  the  delivering 

39 


40  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

dollar  than  South  Africa!  So,  why,  he  asked  himself 
over  and  over,  should  his  brain  now  seem  bursting,  since 
he  had  known  all  this  before?  Why  should  he  involun 
tarily  hold  out  his  hands,  as  he  walked,  as  if  suddenly  he 
were  a  child  again,  and  walking  were  an  experiment  of  the 
result  of  which  he  felt  not  quite  sure?  It  bothered  him 
and  unnerved  him  still  further,  that  he  should  see  himself 
so  instantly  inadequate.  He  put  his  hand  to  his  head, 
as  if  to  aid,  by  that  means,  the  essential  solution  of  this 
riddle  which  had  sprung  on  him.  What  was  the  matter 
with  him?  What  had  happened?  Was  he  mad?  Were 
they  all  mad?  Every  one?  What  else  could  it  be?  That 
or  the  whole  world  had  turned  upside  down  under  some 
cataclysm  of  nature,  as  utter  as  would  be  required  to 
restore  what  had  so  astoundingly  gone,  leaving  him,  a  half- 
hobbled  fool,  feet  bound  and  wits  wandering ! 

Quite  at  a  loss,  and  by  now  trembling  from  his  self- 
discovery,  he  stopped,  and  looked  back,  as  if  he  half- 
expected  to  see  people  following  him.  But  there  was  no 
one.  He  stood  uncertain,  for  a  long  moment.  The  best 
thing  for  him  would  be  to  go  back  to  the  Netherbys', 
providing  he  could  last  that  far,  for  Anne  and  Lady  Neth- 
erby  would  manage.  He  meant  take  care  of  him.  But 
he  shook  his  head:  he  could  not  endure  the  sight  of 
Anne's  grief.  It  had  killed  him  to  see  her  crying  and  not 
have  the  means  of  comforting.  Yes,  that  was  it  —  he 
was  a  failure :  he  couldn't  comfort  her,  he  detailed  to  him 
self,  shaking  his  head  again,  and  swaying,  and  beginning 
to  look  about  warily.  Then,  too,  if  he  returned  to  the 
Netherbys'  he  would  be  pretty  sure  to  see  Miss  Lang- 
maid.  She  had  said  something  to  him  as  he  went  out. 


STRANDED  41 

He  wasn't  sure  what.  It  wasn't  very  clear  to  him. 
Nothing  was  very  clear,  except  the  suddenly  realized  fact 
of  his  utter  powerlessness.  But  he  thought  —  and  be 
came  sure  of  it,  as  he  revolved  it  laboriously  in  his  mind 
—  that  she  had  said  something  which  she  meant  to  be 
comforting.  Her  eyes  had  looked  that  way:  she  was 
young,  he  reflected,  with  a  perspicacity  of  which  he  was 
conscious,  and  she  had  let  her  sympathy  come  out.  She 
had  been  sorry  for  Anne  and  perhaps  even  for  him.  She 
knew,  now,  just  how  it  was  with  them.  Why,  yes,  of 
course,  she  knew,  for  she'd  been  at  the  club  last  night  — 
could  it  have  been  only  last  night?  —  and  heard  that  man 
in  the  street  singing!  Then,  with  the  terrific  suddenness 
and  clarity  with  which  all  of  his  conclusions  had  all  at 
once  begun  to  come  to  him,  he  knew  what  his  trouble 
was :  because  he  hadn't  any  money  and  couldn't  earn  any, 
he  and  Anne  couldn't  marry  and  go  home  and  forget,  for 
all  time,  that  they'd  ever  known  South  Africa.  That  was 
what  Anne  had  just  told  him,  what  he'd  heard  her  telling 
Miss  Langmaid,  there  in  the  breakfast-room,  as  he  came 
in.  She'd  said  she  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer;  it  had 
gotten  so  now  she  didn't  care  how  he  got  the  money  if  it 
would  let  them  marry  and  go  back  to  England.  And  she 
was  right.  Anne  was  right!  That  was  the  way  he  felt 
himself.  He  didn't  care  how  he  got  this  money  any 
more  than  she  did.  And  now  he  had  to  manage  it,  for 
Anne  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer,  any  more  than  he 
could  himself ! 

Standing  quite  still,  in  the  glittering  sunlight,  he  nodded 
to  himself,  with  the  safe  air  of  a  man  who  had  emerged 
from  an  enshrouding  mystery  which  had  been  puzzling 


42  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

him,  and  now  saw  his  next  step  clear.  How  simple  it 
was,  now  that  he  saw  it !  He  was  not  thinking  yet  of  the 
means :  he  was  reflecting  only  on  the  profound  and  inevit 
able  infallability  of  the  decision  upon  which  he  had  ceme 
so  suddenly:  He'd  get  the  money  somehow.  He  turned 
quickly,  and  began  to  walk  on.  What  a  tangle  he'd  been 
in,  back  there!  He  shook  his  head  and  even  shrugged  his 
shoulders  a  little.  He'd  been  pretty  near  going  amanzi 
isi-quekweni  —  that  is  to  say,  having  his  brain  tip  —  then 
lie  smiled,  amazed  that  he  should  have  recalled  the  Zulu 
idiom  at  such  a  moment,  even  to  the  click  in  the  "q."  Yes, 
it  was  amazing.  But  he  put  his  achievement  aside  mod 
estly,  in  order  the  better  to  dwell  on  the  close  shave  he'd 
had  and  how  his  sensations,  before  he  had  gained  his 
present,  unassailable  sanity,  had  alarmed  him.  Well,  the 
danger  was  past  now!  Now,  all  was  clear-sailing!  He 
felt  unaccountably  free  and  unrestrained,  a  liberty  he 
hadn't  experienced  for  he  didn't  know  how  long.  And  he 
drew  a  deep  breath,  and  swung  along  with  a  springy  stride. 
As  he  did  so,  he  saw,  to  his  surprise,  that  he  had  de 
scended  into  the  lowest  parts  of  the  city,  in  his  reverie..  He 
knew  the  place  —  that  is,  he  had  heard  of  it  —  he  was  off 
behind  Berea  Road,  where  white  men  and  native  women 
lived  and  died  in  unspeakable  familiarity  and  even  equal 
ity.  Pine  Street  was  no  sanctuary;  that  was  where  the 
coolies  and  Kaffirs  lived,  they  and  the  Arabs,  the  Sulimen. 

But  this Catching  the  direction  which  gave  the 

earliest  exit  from  these  degraded  and  criminal  —  how 
under  heaven  had  he  gotten  down  there?  —  he  walked  still 
more  swiftly,  stepping  over,  and  working  his  way,  out 
raged,  through  group  after  group  of  children  of  every 


STRANDED  43 

shade,  some  mature  enough  to  offer  him  insult,  and  others 
so  small  as  hardly  to  be  aware  of  him,  engrossed  as  they 
were  in  moulding,  from  clay,  dolls  portraying,  with  shock 
ing  candour,  the  human  form.  Young  and  old  —  what 
beasts  these  creatures  were!  The  Government  ought  to 
prevent  it.  Gad!  He  heaved  a  long  sigh  as  he  emerged 
into  Berea  Road,  from  there,  came  out  upon  Essenwood 
Road,  passed  the  Government  Buildings,  "Kings'  House," 
and  faced  off  for  the  club. 

He  felt  almost  a  thrill  of  pleasure  as  he  approached  it: 
the  morning  was  fine,  and  the  officers,  who  were  human 
enough  at  times,  to  distinguish  the  difference  between  the 
military  and  the  laymen,  would  be  at  the  race  track  at  the 
foot  of  Berea  Hill,  off  on  Stamford  Hill  Road.  They'd 
be  out  of  the  way.  They  were  good  chaps,  and  probably 
didn't  bet  any  more  than  they  could  afford.  Not  even 
in  the  sudden,  lofty  point  of  view  which  was  now  his,  did 
he  hold  them  less  highly  for  betting.  The  sin  was  not  in 
betting.  It  was  in  not  having  money  with  which  to  bet. 
But  he'd  remedy  that.  He'd  get  the  money ! 

He  walked  fast  again.  He  hoped  Chadwell  and  Car- 
stairs  and  Paxton  and  Jem  Eraser  would  be  at  the  club  as 
usual:  he  wanted  to  tell  them  about  his  discovery  that 
he  was  going  to  get  the  money  somehow.  By  a  course  of 
reasoning  so  devious  that  even  he  could  hardly  follow  it, 
Greg  had  reached  the  conviction  that  his  secret  was  not 
his  alone,  his  discovery  not  his  to  monopolize.  It  was  not 
only  that  Chadwell  and  Paxton  and  Carstairs  and  Eraser 
were  all  in  the  same  boat,  needed  money  as  badly,  almost, 
as  he  did;  it  went  deeper  than  that.  So  he'd  tell  them 
about  his  decision.  And  he  wouldn't  wait! 


44  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

Looking  ahead,  he  saw  a  man  glance  at  him  once,  then 
cross  the  street.  Greg  recognized  him:  it  was  Willouby, 
the  superintendent  of  the  new  company  that  had  just 
taken  over  the  Crown  Deep  Mine.  Disinterestedly,  Greg 
remembered  going  to  him  and  asking  to  be  kept  in  mind  for 
a  position;  and  Willouby,  who  had  seemed  a  very  decent 
chap  for  one  so  exaggeratedly  lucky,  had  promised  to  do 
anything  he  could  and  let  him  know  next  time  he  saw  him, 
just  as  he'd  promised  Chadwell  and  Paxton  and  Carstairs 
and  Fraser,  when  they'd  applied.  Well,  Willouby  had  seen 
him  —  and  had  crossed  the  street.  It  was  a  decent  way 
of  letting  him  know  there  was  nothing  for  him  to  hope  for 
with  the  new  company.  Probably,  W'illouby'd  crossed 
the  street  from  Chadwell  and  Paxton  and  Carstairs  and 
Fraser  the  same  way.  They'd  kept  him  busy  dodging. 
Gad !  they'd  coursed  him  like  a  hare !  That  didn't  matter 
either.  They'd  be  at  the  club  —  having  regard  to  the 
nicety  of  his  new  power  to  calculate  all  things  unerringly, 
Greg  established  their  presence  with  the  inevitableness  of 
Destiny  —  and  he'd  tell  them  about  Willouby  and  then  — 
well,  he'd  something  real  to  tell  them :  that  he  was  going  to 
get  the  money  anyway. 

He  entered  the  club.  He  was  right:  They  were  there, 
all  four  of  them,  sitting  in  silence,  as  if  expecting  him. 
Ormsby  was  there,  too.  Greg  had  not  included  this  in 
his  calculation,  and,  for  a  moment,  he  forgot  that  the  big 
American  was  his  guest,  put  up,  by  him,  at  the  club. 

"Confound  the  chap,"  Greg  reflected,  as  he  recognized 
the  long,  broad,  flat  back  he  generally  admired  so.  "Any 
one'd  fancy  he'd  have  realized  how  in  the  way  he'd  be!" 

"How  de  do,  Ormsby?"  he  said  aloud,  with  the  best 


STRANDED  45 

counterfeit  of  his  usual  manner  he  could  manage.  Never 
mind:  he'd  go  out  soon!  But  how  confoundedly  big  the 
man  was :  looked  even  more  fit  in  white  drill  than  he  had, 
last  night,  in  his  evening  clothes!  Some  men  had  every 
thing  ! 

Then,  another  error  in  his  calculation  revealed  itself: 
Colonel  Hackluytt,  an  old  and,  for  his  long  years  of  effec 
tive  service,  a  privileged  member  of  the  Regent,  came  in, 
looked  frankly  about  him,  corrected  his  white  moustache 
and  imperial,  smiled  at  the  preoccupation  of  five  of  the 
six  younger  men,  and  sat  slowly  down. 

"One  drink,  all  'round,"  he  said,  and  smiled  again. 

The  silence  deepened:  the  five  knew  —  a  story  was 
coming.  Was  a  man  ever  so  obtuse? 

"Right  O!  Colonel,"  encouraged  Greg  and  Carstairs 
with  an  earnestness  which  recalled  their  repeated  hits  in 
the  club  theatricals. 

With  unimpaired  geniality,  the  old  warrior  summoned  a 
waiter.  "One  all  'round,"  he  laughed.  Clearly,  he  was 
good  for  an  hour  at  the  shortest,  and  Greg  could  have 
groaned  aloud.  But  he  said,  "You  know  what,  sir." 
And  Paxton  and  Chadwell  and  young  Jem  Fraser  echoed 
from  the  corner  they'd  retreated  to.  "Right  O!"  follow 
ing  a  "Fine  for  you,  sir,"  from  the  big  American. 

"Chuck  it  out,  the  confounded  thing,  but  crush  it 
first,"  came  sharply  from  Chadwell.  "Teach  these  beg 
gars  a  lesson!  You're  nearest,  Greg."  And  Bradbroke 
leaned,  lithely,  toward  a  small,  earthenware  cup  of  native 
workmanship,  which  a  dark  hand  had  suddenly  thrust 
in  through  the  open  door. 

But  before  Greg's  upraised  stick  could  obey  Chadwell's 


46  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

monition,  Colonel  Hackluytt,  youthfully  active,  caught 
the  cup.  "Pardon  me,  my  boy,  but  I've  a  better  way," 
he  said.  And  he  stuffed  a  silver  piece  and  a  larger,  of 
copper,  into  the  little  cup,  then  restored  it  to  its  owner, 
and  slowly  closed  the  door.  "I  know,"  he  said,  as  he 
turned  back  to  them,  "it's  only  a  witch-doctor,  only  a 
Zulu  beggar;  but,"  as  he  seated  himself  again,  "it's  been 
some  little  time,  now,  since  I've  willingly  done  anything 
that  could  get  those  chaps  down  on  me."  He  fixed  him 
self  solidly  in  his  rattan  chair,  without  a  glance  at  the  men 
about  him.  When  the  glasses  were  brought,  he  bowed, 
and  after  the  short  toast,  touched  his  to  his  lips,  then  low 
ered  it,  setting  it  carefully,  almost  painstakingly,  on  the 
little  table  which  the  waiter  had  placed  near.  Then,  rais 
ing  his  strong  old  eyes,  he  said  slowly,  "I'm  going  to  tell 
you  young  chaps  now  why  I'm  so  careful,  not  to  get  a 
witch-doctor's  enmity.  'What's  the  difference?'  you're 
thinking,  'for  they're  only  niggers?  Witch-doctors? 
Natal's  full  of  'em.  They're  always  running  about,  com 
ing  in  on  a  man,  and  all  he  ever  does  is  to  have  his  "boy" 
give  'em  the  right-about!'  Yes,  but  when  a  man's  lived 
on  the  veldt,  when  he's  seen  these  witch-men  weave  their 

influence He  stopped,   as  if  the  current  of  his 

recollections  had  suddenly  set  so  strongly  that  speech  was 
impossible.  He  nodded,  as  if  to  himself.  "Yes,"  he  said 
deliberately,  "and,  after  I've  told  you,  you'll  know." 
With  the  unhurried  manner  of  a  soldier  of  severest 
service,  with  the  self-belief  in  the  supernatural  which 
characterizes  the  old  officer  of  generation-long  experience 
in  South  Africa,  he  spoke  to  himself,  as  the  old-timer  al 
ways  speaks.  He  was  an  old-timer.  He  had  stood  still, 


STRANDED  47 

with  the  code  and  memories,  taught  him  unforgettably, 
by  the  soulless,  never-embodied  Spirit  of  the  Veldt.  That 
was  why  Hackluytt  stood  still;  that  was  why  he  remem 
bered  that  lesson  so  eternally;  that  was  why  he  held  to  his 
old  pokit-of-view,  his  old  ways.  For  one  of  them,  he  con 
tinued  to  smoke  —  and  was  always  urging  men  to  try  — 
Boer  tobacco,  " McHollisburg  Range."  "I  like  it,"  he 
would  say,  "for  it's  strong  and  loose  and  dry."  For  an 
other,  his  drink  was  always  Boer  brandy,  "Cape  Smoke," 
in  the  English  idiom;  "dop,"  in  the  language  of  the 
Boers.  Yes,  Hackluytt  clung  to  his  "Cape  Smoke"; 
"it's  like  the  best  whiskey  you  ever  drank."  he  would 
say,  "with  just  a  little  taste  of  raisins  in  it:  it's  so  sweet." 
And,  sitting  there,  firm  and  straight  in  his  chair,  for  all 
his  snow-white  moustache  and  imperial,  he  looked  about 
him,  covering  each  of  the  six  faces  confidently.  Still 
muzzled  by  the  tide  of  his  code  and  his  memories,  he  sat 
silent.  Then,  he  raised  his  glass  once  again  to  his  lips 
and,  having  again  tended  his  moustache  and  imperial,  he 
began. 


CHAPTER  V 
THOKOLOSI,   THE   EVIL  ONE,  THE   POISONER 

I  SHALL  give  it  exactly  as  it  was,"  he  said  gravely, 
"even  to  my  own  share  in  it.     And  I  give  it  here, 
with  truth  in  its  every  detail,  so  that  those  of  you 
who  have  never  been  so  far  south  before,  or,  having  been 
here  even  to  the  point  of  residence,  have  not  learned, 
shall  know  something  of  what  lies  in  wait  beneath  the 
apparently  prosaic  surface  of  South  Africa.     That,  then, 
is  my  own  excuse  and  my  story's  prologue.     The  story 
itself  is  this."    He  waited,  leaned  slightly  forward,  and 
the  story  came: 

"The  'Corinthian,'  as  everybody  knows,  stands  well 
back  in  Piccadilly,  and  the  centre-pole  which  holds  up 
its  roof  is,  or  rather  was,  Sir  Gordon  Ralfe.  There  is 
neither  time  nor  occasion  here  to  go  into  the  reasons 
which  led  him  to  cease  his  patronage  of  the  ring  and  track, 
and  become  our  first  and  most  radical  scientist.  Suffice 
it  to  say  that,  at  the  time  with  which  I  deal,  he  had  not 
for  years  had  on  the  gloves,  and  had  got  too  heavy  for 
the  jumps,  weighed  down,  it  may  be,  by  his  honorary 
degrees  from  admiring  American,  as  well  as  European 
and  English,  universities.  He  continued,  however,  to  be 
the  keystone  of  the  'Corinthian,'  and  might  have  been, 

48 


THE  EVIL  ONE  49 

even  to  this  time,  had  not  the  strange  incident  of  which 
I  am  about  to  speak  occurred : 

"  I  had  found  the  usual  crowd  there,  that  night :  Stem 
ming,  of  the  Ministry,  in  between  the  acts,  Keith  Teilston, 
Captain  Wainwright,  unconscious  of  his  immediately 
impending  colonelcy;  Fraser  Bell,  Sir  Henry  Carrisbrook, 
half  a  dozen  'retired,'  and  as  many  or  more  'actives,' 
of  the  line,  Lee  Stronnock,  Brice-Bellingham,  and  young 
Roger  Bam.  Sir  Gordon  was  absent;  and  this  was,  in 
itself,  so  out  of  the  ordinary  that  I  spoke  of  it  to  Carris 
brook,  learning  then,  for  the  first  time,  of  the  sudden 
disappearance,  a  fortnight  before,  of  Sir  Gordon's  only 
son,  a  disappearance  the  more  unaccountable  from  the 
singularly  gentle  and  home-loving  nature  of  the  boy. 
All  of  us  had  known  him,  and  recalled  his  rather  ascetic 
temperament,  his  diminutive  figure,  which  went  so  oddly 
with  his  father's  bulk  and  his  own  nineteen  years,  his 
almost  gypsy  skin,  and  his  great  black  eyes,  so  passionless 
and  yet  so  receptive  of  impression,  their  spirit  always 
received  from  others,  and  never  from  within.  A  good  bit 
of  a  dreamer,  we  had  thought  him.  He  had  never  known 
his  mother;  and,  though  idolized  by  his  father,  who  had 
married  late  in  life,  had  been,  it  was  said,  very  fairly 
much  alone. 

"  'And  you  say  he  left  nothing  to  tell  where  he  was 
going?'  I  asked  Teilston,  who  had  joined  us,  full  of 
what  I  found  still  to  be  the  one  subject  tolerated  at  the 
club. 

"  '  No,  he  left  nothing !     Not  a  syllable ! ' 

'  'Or  any  kind  of  a  lead  to  follow,'  struck  in  Carris 
brook,  'I  believe  there  were  the  imprints  of  the  bare 


50  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

feet  of  a  child,  leading  from  the  house  to  the  highroad, 
through  the  mud  —  it  had  rained  heavily  in  the  night; 
but  there  they  left  off  suddenly.  Imagine  it!  And  this 
in  England ! '  He  shook  his  head. 

"I  was  not  less  incredulous,  and  should  have  asked 
more,  had  not  Stronnock,  at  that  moment,  interrupted 
us. 

"  'I  say,  Hackluytt,"  he  called  across  to  me,  'just 
take  a  look  at  this  picture.  Rather  good,'  he  resumed,  as 
I  went  to  him:  'something  they've  put  up  since  we've 
been  here!'  Then,  lowering  his  voice,  'If  you've  nothing 
on,  meet  me,  in  half  an  hour,  in  the  third  smoking-room ! ' 
And  he  strolled  off,  leaving  me  before  the  picture  which  had 
attracted  him. 

"As  he'd  said,  it  had  been  hung  since  he  and  I  had  last 
been  at  the  'Corinthian';  and  there  had  been  ample 
time,  for  we  were  just  up  from  Natal,  where  we'd  been 
in  the  legation  for  the  past  four  years.  It  was  good  to 
be  home  again;  but,  though  England's  England,  and 
London's  the  best  of  it,  I  was  already  longing  for  the 
up-country  and  the  veldt;  and  Stronnock's  swift  aside, 
smacking  somehow  of  30  degrees  south,  came  gratefully. 
And  I  was  glad  when  the  half  hour  was  up,  and  I  could 
turn  the  knob  in  the  door  of  the  third  smoking-room. 

"And  there,  with  Stronnock,  I  found  Sir  Gordon 
Ralfe.  His  eyes  met  mine,  as  I  entered;  but  he  gave 
me  only  the  most  formal  bow.  I  fancy  he  barely  rec 
ognized  me.  I  know  that  his  emotion  left  him  scarcely 
recognizable. 

;  'I've  asked  Hackluytt  to  come  into  this  with   me,* 
Lee  explained  briefly.     'You  were  saying,'  he  resumed, 


THE  EVIL  ONE  51 

'that  your  men  have  found  no  trace  of  him.  Why  have 
you  not  called  in  Scotland  Yard?' 

"Sir  Gordon  turned  on  us:  'Because  they  would  think 
me  mad,  if  I  told  them  what  I  shall  tell  you:  the  cursed 
obsession,  the  damnable  doggrel,  which  came  on  me  the 
night  he  left,  and  now  is  crazing  me!  I  cannot  pro 
nounce  it,  but' —  as  Stronnock  pushed  ink  and  paper 
toward  him,  'yes,  it  may  be  that  I  can  write  it  down.' 

"With  laboured  effort,  he  did  so,  then  bent  over  it 
fascinatedly:  'What  do  you  make  of  it?'  he  demanded. 
'  Translate  the  hellish  thing,  if  you  can,  for  God's  sake,  and 
tell  me  what  it  is,  and  how  I  came  by  it,  and  what,  if 
anything,  it  has  to  do  with  Esmonde  and  me!' 

"For  one  speechless  second,  Stronnock  and  I  looked 
down  at  what  he  had  written,  then  we  sent  our  eyes 
away  from  each  other.  Indeed,  I  believe  that  it  was  only 
to  give  us  time  to  adjust  ourselves,  that  Lee  rang  for  wine 
and  fresh  cigars.  And,  when  he  spoke,  it  was  to  put 
a  question: 

"  'Did  you  come  to  me  with  this,  Sir  Gordon,  because 
you  knew  of  my  familiarity  with  the  native  tongues  and 
dialects  of  South  Africa?  If  so,  why  did  you  fancy  that 
this  might  be  South  African?' 

"Sir  Gordon  looked  absently  about  him,  'If  I  could 
express  it,'  he  said  dully,  'but  it  is  too  vague,  too  indefi 
nite,  too  indefinable:  only  the  remotest,  most  elusive 
of  suggestions,  yet  with  a  reminder  of  South  Africa,' 
he  added,  slowly,  'if  of  anything.' 

'  'A  reminder?     Then  you  have  been  there?' 

'  'It  was  six  years  ago.  I  went  for  scientific  research. 
I  was  there,  as  I  recall  it,  a  little  beyond  a  year.' 


52  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

"  'You  went  well  accompanied?' 

"  'My  son  and  I  were  the  only  white  men.  Of  course, 
we  had  the  usual  guides,  bearers,  and  interpreters.  We 
went  from  Natal  northward  through  Zululand  into 
Swaziland,  for  the  hunting;  then  up  into  Uganda  to  study 
the  sleeping  sickness,  there  so  prevalent.' 

"  'And,  from  there?'  Lee  asked  quietly. 

"  'We  dropped  downward,  and  passed  through  to 
Cape  Colony,  where  I  made  an  examination  of  the 
"blue"  soil  around  Kimberley,  before  visiting  Durban, 
then  turning  northwest  again  into  the  Orange  River 
Colony.' 

'  'Crossing  the  Drackenbergs,  after  that?' 
1  'No;  we  went  into  Basutoland.' 

'To  study  the  fossils,  the  Bushman  cave-pictures 
in  the  Quthing,  and  the  animal  impressions  at  Tsikoani,' 
supplied  Stronnock.  'They  are  remarkable.' 

'  'On  the  contrary,'  corrected  Sir  Gordon,  'I  went  to 
observe  the  natives,  to  see  if  they  were  as  described  by 
my  friend,  Callamore,  in  his  very  interesting  book!' 

"Lee  inclined  his  head.  'You  found  the  Basutos  dis 
tinctive,  did  you  not?  They  are  less  perfectly  built  than 
the  Zulus  —  and  quite  natural,  too,  for  the  latter  are 
warriors,  and  the  former  tillers  of  the  soil,  yet  they 
preserve  more  of  their  ancient  powers.  I  wonder  if,  in 
your  short  time  among  them,  you  became  aware  of  their 
use  of  telepathy?' 

"The  zeal  of  the  investigator  glowed  for  a  moment, 
in  Sir  Gordon's  eyes.  'You  refer  to  their  witch-doctors! 
Yes,  they  have  mastered  it.  At  first  they  were  reticent; 
but,  later,  they  displayed  it  frankly,  so  convincing  me 


THE  EVIL  ONE  53 

that  I  placed  my  mind  in  the  required  receptive  state  and 
invited  them  to  employ  their  skill  on  me.' 

"  'And  they  did  so?'  Lee  asked,  his  eyes  on  the  slowly 
dying  ash  of  his  cigar. 

"  'Repeatedly,  upon  both  of  us.  Their  communications 
through  Esmonde  were  well-nigh  incredible.' 

'  '  So  that  you  became  convinced  that  they  could  effect 
your  will  through  distance?' 

'  '  Beyond  all  question.  In  Esmonde's  case  —  but  I 
shall  not  even  attempt  to  describe  it  to  you.  They  found 
him  the  better  subject  of  the  two.' 

"Again  Lee  inclined  his  head.  '  But,'  he  asked  thought 
fully,  'were  they  not  afraid  that  you  would  learn  too 
much?  It  would  have  been  expected  for  they  are  in 
sanely  jealous  of  their  art.' 

'  That  did  not  come  until  later,'  replied  Sir  Gordon. 
'I  have  said  that  one  had  to  accept  the  strange  fact  of 
their  mental  influence.  But  even  that  was  dwarfed  by 
something  I  came  on,  unexpectedly:  one  day,  one  of  my 
chief  interpreters,  whom  I  had  had  bribe  his  way  into 
familiarity  with  some  of  their  oldest  men,  told  me  that 
something  had  sprung  out  upon  him  from  behind  the 
juala  pots  in  a  witch-doctor's  hut,  and  that,  as  a  result, 
he  had  not  an  hour  to  live.  The  man  looked  in  perfect 
condition,  and  I  ordered  him  back  to  his  work.  But,  as 
he  turned  to  obey  me,  he  fell  dead  at  my  very  feet.  I 
had  put  no  faith  in  his  story,  and  still  did  not;  but,  out 
of  curiosity,  I  looked  behind  the  juala  pots  he  had  said 
the  Thing  came  from;  and,  there  in  the  dust,  were  the 
imprints  of  diminutive  human  feet.  You  will  hardly  accept 
it,  yet  I  affirm  it,  and  you  have  already  visualized  my  next 


54  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

step:  I  taxed  the  witch-doctors  with  the  crime,  telling 
them  that,  though  I  should  leave  their  punishing  to  the 
proper  authorities,  I  regarded  their  mysterious  agent  as 
only  a  clever  bit  of  trickery,  which  I  held  it  my  duty  to 
expose.  And ' 

"  'Yes,'  Lee's  voice  came,  almost  impatiently.  'And 
they?' 

"  'Turned  sullen,  sullen  as  bated  dogs,  and  told  me  I 
had  best  desist.  I  redoubled  my  efforts,  I  omitted  nothing. 
And  I  believe,  still,  that  I  should  have  solved  the  riddle, 
had  not  Esmonde  begun  to  give  me  anxiety.  He  had 
maintained  friendly  relations  with  the  witch-doctors,  and 
had  become  so  rare  a  telepathic  subject  that  he  was 
sensitive  to  their  lightest  wish;  and  this  seemed  to  prey 
on  him  —  he  was  not,  he  never  has  been,  strong,'  Sir 
Gordon  said  grudgingly;  'and  I  abandoned  my  study  and 
brought  him  home  to  a  more  natural  atmosphere  where 
there  were  no  witch-doctors  to  dominate  him  with  their 
powers.'  His  eyes  fired,  his  breast  heaved,  'I  took  him 

from  them.     I ' 

'You  should  have  done  that  before,'  said  Stronnock 
unwillingly.  As  he  spoke,  he  turned  toward  Sir  Gordon 
the  small  square  of  paper,  hardly  dry  from  the  pen.  'Thoko- 
losi,  ha-e-na  a  bolkue,  is  what  you  have  written.  The 
last  three  words  mean,  "Come  down  and  help  us,"  and 
the  language,'  Lee  completed  slowly, '  is  that  of  the  people 
of  Basutoland.' 

"  'And  the  first  word,  "Thokolosi." '  At  last  Sir 
Gordon  had  caught  the  drift  of  Stronnock's  questioning, 
and  his  hoarse  whisper  barely  reached  our  ears 

'  That  is  the  secret  which  they  were  afraid  you  might 


THE  EVIL  ONE  55 

find  out:  the  fact  of  the  Thokolosi,  the  strange,  small, 
unclassified  people  whom  the  witch-doctors  call  in  to  aid 
them  in  their  most  unhallowed  work.  I  wish  to  God  I 
could  construe  this  otherwise,  but  it  has  only  one  mean 
ing:  six  years  ago,  your  son  came  under  the  witch-doctors' 
influence;  and  this  has  lasted  until  now,  from  Basutoland, 
they  have  reincarnated  him  into  one  of  those  creatures  whose 
existence  you  doubted,  have  summoned  him  for  service,  and 
he  has  —  gone ! ' ' 

Hackluytt  bent  his  eyes  on  one  after  another  of  the 
men  who  stared  at  him,  motionless.  "I  wish,"  he  said 
gravely,  "yes>  I  beg  of  the  Almighty,  that  some  day  I 
may  be  permitted  to  forget  the  face  turned  toward  us 
then  by  old  Sir  Gordon  Ralfe !  They  say  that  Science  is 
merciless ;  and  in  this  case  she  was :  in  her  behalf,  he  had 
sought  to  plumb  the  pit  of  native  mystery,  and,  though  he 
had  not  succeeded,  it  had  left  him  without  the  balm  of  in 
credulity  :  he  heard  Stronnock's  grim  verdict  and  believed. 
For  a  time  there  was  silence,  so  dead  that  I  heard  the 
weightless  sounds  of  the  invisible  life  around  us,  so 
faint  as  hardly  to  produce  the  idlest  vibration  upon  the 
ear. 

'Yet  one  more  question,'  said  Sir  Gordon;  and  even 
his  lifeless  voice  was  a  relief:  'how  came  I  to  receive  a 
message,  or  a  command,  as  you  now  call  it,  sent  to  my 
son  and  not  to  me?' 

"  'Secondary  reception,  which  you  learned  from  the 
witch-doctors  without  being  aware  of  it,'  said  Lee. 

"Then  again  silence,  deeper  even  than  before. 

"At  last,  Stronnock  swung  toward  him,  'You  have 
heard,  And  now?' 


56  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

"Aged  suddenly  by  years,  the  other  rose  up.  'I  am 
going  to  Basutoland,  to  him,'  said  old  Sir  Gordon  Ralfe. 

"But  Lee's  square  hand  went  to  the  shrunken  shoulder. 
'No,  for  it  would  mean  your  death,  and  his.  Besides,' 
and  I  nodded,  as  our  eyes  met,  'there's  another  way: 
we  will  go  in  your  stead! ' 

"  And  that  is  why,  a  week  later,  we  took  passage  on 
the  Rennie  liner  Inanda  for  Natal. 

"You  know  what  the  trip  is,"  Hackluytt  went  on: 
"one  never  becomes  used  to  it,  run  it  as  many  times  as 
he  will.  I  say  it,  and  I  was  old  in  South  African  things, 
even  at  that  day!  I  say  it,  and  truly.  For  who  can  tire 
of  the  Indian  Ocean,  who  think  to  measure  the  tales  of 
horror  it  has  heard?  I  say  to  you  that  this  cursed 

ocean "     His  hand  set,  but  he  caught  himself  back 

obstinately,  with  a  resentful  growl:  "No  matter.  At 
last  we  swung  into  Durban  Bay ;  the  Government  railway 
dropped  us  at  Ladysmith,  where  we  got  our  outfit  of  a 
dozen  trusted  'boys';  then  we  were  off,  due  west,  across 
the  Drackenbergs,  across  the  southeast  corner  of  the 
Orange  River  Colony,  and,  four  days  later,  came  out  upon 
the  border  of  Basutoland.  And  there  another  traveller 
overtook  us  with  swift  Madagascar  oxen.  It  was  Sir 
Gordon;  on  the  day  after  we'd  sailed,  he  had  followed, 
at  once  taking  passage  on  the  Castle  Avondale. 

"At  seeing  him,  regret  and  baffled  anger  showed  in 
Stronnock's  eyes. 

'  'I  told  you  what  it  would  mean,  if  you  came,'  he 
cried  out. 

'  'But  I  have  made  my  choice,'  the  old  man  said. 

'  'Sir  Gordon,'  Lee  said  again,  'you  cannot  realize  the 


THE  EVIL  ONE  57 

choice  you've  made:  remember  that  the  nGaka,  the  witch 
doctors,  summoned  Esmonde  because  they  hated  you 
and  wished  to  punish  you;  and  your  presence  here  will 
only  assist  their  ends.  Go  back  with  your  oxen,  and  let 
Hackluytt  and  me  go  on.  We're  immune  to  their  in 
fluence,  for  they  never  caught  our  wills;  and  we'll  take 
them  by  their  necks,  as  we  did  another,  back  behind  us 
at  Natal,  and  they'll  bare  their  souls  to  us,  as  that  other 
did!' 

"  'Yet  I  must  go  on,'  said  Sir  Gordon,  absently. 

"A  dog  had  trotted  over  to  us  from  the  bearers,  no 
native  cur,  but  one  of  our  bulldogs,  built  like  a  Channel 
tug. 

'  'From  the  coast,  as  part  of  your  equipment?'  asked 
Stronnock,  as  he  stroked  the  great  beast's  breast. 

"  'No,  it  was  Esmonde's.' 

"'That,'  said  Lee  thoughtfully,  'is  well.'  But  he 
spoke  half-heartedly,  his  eyes  on  the  indefatigable  dis 
tance  dividing  us  from  our  quest. 

"Not  so  Sir  Gordon's:  they  had  gone  back  over  the 
long  trek  up-country  from  the  coast,  and  from  there  to 
where  England  lay  hidden  well  behind  four  oceans  and 
eight  thousand  tortuous  miles  of  fog  and  sea. 

"Then  he  turned  toward  us.       'I  am  ready.' 

"And  at  four  that  day  we  breasted  the  first  rough  hills 
of  wild  Basutoland. 

"As  you  enter,  from  the  Orange  River  Colony,"  Hack 
luytt  resumed,  with  telling  intimacy,  "enormous  rocks 
and  kopjes  face  you,  jutting  up  here  and  there.  In  the 
near  distance,  you  see  the  Malutis,  a  spur  of  the  Dracken- 
bergs,  looking  toward  the  east,  and,  in  between,  the  waving 


58  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

plumes  of  the  amabele,  the  vigorous  Kaffir  corn.  Every 
now  and  then,  as  you  proceed  inward,  you  come  on  villages 
of  conical,  thatched  huts,  the  cattle-kraal,  in  which  is 
the  local  cemetery,  invariably  in  the  centre  of  the  town. 
And,  at  each  of  these  sprawling  villages,  we  were  greeted 
deferentially. 

"  'May  your  feet  go  softly  all  your  days,'  or  'You  have 
taken  the  wedge  from  between  my  teeth,'  they  told  us, 
for,  so  far,  the  Basutos  had  shown  us  only  friendliness. 

"Then,  as  we  passed  farther  in,  their  temper  changed: 
there  was  no  overt  act  of  animosity;  but  it  was  harder 
to  get  oxen;  corn  was  scarce;  and  we  had  the  greatest 
difficulty  in  securing  guides,  which  last  Lee  and  I  had 
considered  it  policy  to  employ,  though  both  of  us  knew 
the  country  perfectly. 

"  From  time  to  time  we  met  'raw'  natives,  come  upon  in 
former  wanderings;  and  these  received  us  with  immature 
cordiality.  But  they  left  us  as  soon  as  they  found  our 
party's  personnel,  for  we  were  now  come  to  that  part  of 
the  land  which  Sir  Gordon  had  visited  those  six  years 
back,  and  they  remembered  him. 

"Then  one  of  our  Kaffirs  sickened  and  died  horribly. 
There  was  no  wound  or  sign  of  local  druggery;  but  some 
of  the  poor  chap's  symptoms  were  those  of  one  bitten 
by  the  tsetse  fly,  and  that,  in  itself,  was  singular,  for 
the  insect  is  never  found  south  of  Delagoa  Bay.  The 
witch-doctors  had  scented  us.  And  we  were  soon  to 
have  a  better  demonstration:  our  oxen,  this  time,  for 
in  one  night  they  died. 

"Then,  our  'boys/  reading  the  signs,  took  fright. 

'  'Baas,'  said  big  umZablodi,  our  ax-man,  'my  brother 


THE  EVIL  ONE  59 

is  sick  in  Zululand.'*  And,  do  what  we  could,  he  left  us. 
I  doubt  if  he  ever  reached  the  hut  on  the  umHlatizi's 
bank.  . 

"  'The  Moloi,  umFundize,'  said  our  driver,  singing  the 
term  of  extreme  deference  between  his  chattering  teeth. 
And,  with  three  others,  he  left  us,  in  the  night. 

"  'I'd  expected  this,'  said  Stronnock,  after  the  last 
had  gone:  'they  felt  the  witch-doctors  long  before  we 
did,  and  their  sticking  on  this  far  ought  to  get  them  the 
V.C.  But  not  even  they  dared  to  come  farther,  for  this, 
Sir  Gordon,'  indicating  the  ragged  outline  of  the  kraals 
we  were  approaching,  'is  the  fateful  village  in  which  all 
your  troubles  were  begun;  and  here  the  nGaka  will 
send  their  Thokolosi  against  you.  They  have  waited 
six  years  to  do  it,  and  they  will  be  waiting  for  you 
now.' 

"  '  How  long  would  they  have  waited,'  Sir  Gordon  asked 
wonderingly.  'Suppose  that  I  had  stayed  on  in  England 
—  had,  I  mean,  not  come?' 

"  'You  had  to  come.  The  witch-doctors  had  willed 
it,'  Lee  went  on  evenly.  'I  have  not  told  you  this  before, 
for  it  would  have  made  you  only  more  susceptible.  But 
their  control  of  you  has  been  the  hardest  thing  I  have 
had  to  reckon  with.  I  was  testing  it  that  night  in  Lon 
don,  when  I  asked  you  to  let  us  go  in  your  place;  and, 
though  your  consenting  showed  me  that  their  control 
of  you  was  not  yet  perfected,  I  knew  that  it  would  be. 

*  I  see  that  I  have  used  the  words  Kaffir  and  Zulu  interchangeably, 
and  this  is  error:  the  Kaffirs  come  from  Kaffiria,  down  around  the 
Cape,  and  are,  I  believe,  half  Hottentot  and  half  Pondo.  Whereas,  the 
Zulus  are  a  distinct  and  different  race,  vastly  superior  to  the  Kaffirs, 
will  not  marry  into  them,  and,  in  fact,  hold  them  to  be  beneath 
contempt.  THE  AUTHOR. 


60  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

In  short,  I  counted  on  your  overtaking  us  about  where 
you  did.' 

"Though  Sir  Gordon  gave  no  sign,  it  brought  home 
to  him,  for  the  first  time,  the  palpability  of  the  force 
with  which  we  had  to  deal. 

"  'Yes,'  he  said  slowly,  'I  see  it  now:  they  were  calling 
me,  as  they  had  already  called  Esmonde;  and  I  would 
not  be  warned.  Well,  I  have  obeyed  them  and  they  can 
do  their  will  on  me,  for  I  don't  want  life,  with  Esmonde 
worse  than  dead.  Yet,'  with  something  of  his  old  spirit, 
which  we  had  missed  so,  'it  does  come  ill  to  me  that  I 
should  have  made  their  victory  so  complete!  If  they 
could  have  been  overcome  —  if  it  were  not  yet  too 
late !' 

"Lee  turned  on  him.  'It  is  not  yet  too  late,'  he  cried 
out:  'we'll  turn  back  now,  and,  if  you'll  keep  close  to  us  and 
not  for  one  moment  leave  us  until  we  release  you,  before 
God,  we'll  bring  you  safe  out  to  the  coast  in  spite  of  all 
the  witch-doctors  that  ever  wore  the  iguana's  skin!'  The 
temper  of  our  mission  had  wearied  even  him;  but  now  he 
was  as  a  horse  whose  head  is  turned  toward  home;  and 
it  was  good  to  hear  the  old,  deep  vibrance  in  his  voice 
again.  '  Remember:  close  to  us,  and  not  for  one  moment  be 
alone! ' 

"We  sprang,  like  hurrying  thieves,  to  snatch  up  what 
we  needed  most,  and  of  these  only  the  most  easily  packed 
and  portable,  not  speaking,  frankly  glad,  and  hot  for  the 
start  down  the  back  track.  And  then  — • —  I  can  see 
now  the  white  moonlight  of  the  still  Afric  night,  hear 
the  who-who  of  the  baboons,  the  unrest  of  the  monkeys  as 
they  rattled  in  the  leaves,  the  whee  of  the  Bush-baby,  the 


THE  EVIL  ONE  61 

lizard  which  pleads  as  a  nursing  child,  all  coming  eerily 
to  us  from  the  surrounding,  spirit-haunted  wastes.  And 
then  another  sound,  long-drawn,  plaintive,  pitiable  — 
a  dog's  sad  howling-out  of  his  distress. 

"  'Fools  that  we  were  not  to  watch  him,'  Lee  cried  out; 
and  his  tense  arm,  pointing,  told  the  tale,  for  there  was 
Sir  Gordon,  walking  slowly  from  us  toward  the  Bush, 
his  eyes  staring  straight  before  him  at  Something  —  God 
knows  what  he  saw !  And  then  we  saw  It  come  shuffling 
to  him  from  the  deepest  shade,  a  strange,  small  figure, 
Its  head  moving  oddly  from  side  to  side  as  it  came; 
on  at  him,  It  came  running,  was  ten  yards  away,  then 
five;  before  we  could  reach  him,  our  warning  cry  drowned 
in  Sir  Gordon's  dull  groan  of  despair,  as  the  Thing  sprang 
on  him  and  struck  the  life  from  out  his  breast,  at  the 
crack  of  our  Enfields  shuffling  back  into  the  blackness  of 
the  Bush. 

"And  so  it  was,"  Hackluytt  concluded,  "that  they 
worsted  us.  Whether  Sir  Gordon  died  from  another  cause 
than  the  thrust  of  that  small  hand,  whether  that  Thoko- 
losi  were  Esmonde,  whether  our  shots  sped  true,  are 
questions  which  must  wait  their  answer  on  another  day 
than  this.  We  buried  him  there  among  the  cold  rocks 
of  bleak  Basutoland,  and,  with  him,  our  one  opinion  as 
to  whose  hand  had  brought  him  down.  Yet,  calling  it 
Esmonde's,  he  was  guiltless,  being  only  the  actor  of  the 
will  of  some  nGaka,  some  witch-doctor,  who,  remembering 
well,  called,  when  he  would,  his  unforgiven  enemy,  to 
set  upon  him  the  direst  of  all  the  dire  spirits  of  this  un 
hallowed  land,  Thokolosi,  the  Evil  One,  the  Poisoner ! " 

There  was  absolute  silence  when  Hackluytt  finished. 


62  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

Still,  as  if  mummified,  his  hearers  stared  at  him.  And  he 
himself,  old-timer  that  he  was,  sat  motionless,  hypnotized 
equally  by  his  bitterness  and  his  terrible  narrative.  Told 
quietly  and  without  emphasis,  yet  with  an  unstudied 
earnestness  which  sustained  its  dramatic  properties  to 
their  very  top,  the  story  had  held  his  hearers,  and  its 
spell  was  on  them  yet. 

At  last,  he  moved,  pouring  down,  it  seemed  without  a 
swallow,  the  rest  of  his  glass  of  "Cape  Smoke."  And 
there  was  little  triumph  in  his  fierce,  old  eyes  when  he 
looked  about  him.  Rather,  he  seemed  regretful,  for  he 
tugged,  almost  self-reproachfully,  at  his  white  imperial. 

"Nasty  idea,  ain't  it!"  he  said  ruefully.  "Sorry;  but 
the  thing  came  up,  in  my  memory,  like  a  thunderstorm, 
and  I  couldn't  make  it  an  April  shower."  He  smiled 
grimly.  "No,  by  Gad!  not  an  April  shower!  Try  some 
of  my  tobacco,"  he  said  suddenly  to  Ormsby,  holding 
his  pouch  out.  "I'd  be  glad  to  have  you  knock  out  what 
you've  got  in  there  now,  and  try  mine,  before  I  go  along." 

"Mighty  glad  to,"  said  the  big  man,  "and  I'll  walk 
along  with  you."  He  nodded  to  the  other  men,  held  the 
door  open  for  Colonel  Hackluytt,  and  the  two  passed  out 
through  the  main  living-room,  and  on  into  the  street, 
leaving  abruptly,  a  thing  which  men  are  always  privileged 
to  do  —  with  men. 

The  door  swung  in  and  out  lazily  across  the  sill  of  the 
small,  inner  room  which  they  had  left,  each  swing  more 
deliberate,  like  the  stride  of  the  pendulum  of  a  clock, 
which,  the  instant  before,  has  run  dowrn;  then  the  door 
came  to  rest  on  a  dead  centre,  a  little  off  the  sill,  for  the 
breeze  blew  strong.  And  the  five  men  who  watched  it 


THE  EVIL  ONE  63 

seemed  held  from  speech  by  its  subsiding  motion,  and  it 
was  not  until  the  motion  died  that  Chadwell  began: 

"  Pretty  middh'ng  nasty  rot,  I  say,  if  you  ask  me!  And 
the  old  chap  was  right  in  feeling  it  was  depressing,  rot 
though  it  was." 

"Mustn't  blame  him,  though,"  Paxton  joined  in, 
"for  it  wasn't  the  story.  We  were  that  way  already, 
heaven  knows,  and  with  cause  enough!"  He  stopped 
short,  and  looked  across  to  where  Bradbroke  stood  by  the 
window,  apparently  still  hearing  Hackluytt,  his  eyes 
aglow  with  sudden  fire.  "  Greg,  old  chap,"  Paxton  began, 
then  stopped.  "  You  give  it  to  him,  Hugh.  You  can 
break  it  a  lot  decenter  than  I!" 

Chadwell  nodded  irresolutely  but  with  resignation. 
"Anyway,  I  can  get  it  out  quicker."  He  turned  toward 
the  window.  "Greg,  you  remember  how  all  of  us  went  to 
Willouby  of  the  new  Crown  Deep  Company,  said  it  was 
the  best  look  we'd  any  of  us  had  since  we'd  got  here,  the 
only  thing  in  sight  that  could  possibly  amount  to  any 
thing?  Well,"  without  waiting  Greg's  answer,  "it's  all 
off.  I  saw  Willouby  just  now  on  the  street,  and  they're 
bringing  their  own  men.  We're  cooked." 

There  was  a  long  silence  through  which  they  stared  at 
Bradbroke,  who,  though  he  must  have  heard,  had  not 
turned. 

Chadwell  got  to  his  feet.  "  I  say,  Greg,  you  know  what 
it  means?" 

"Don't  stand  there  like  a !  Greg,"  Carstairs 

broke  out,  "can't  you  see? " 

Eraser  rose  slowly  and  cautiously  touched  Paxton's 
sleeve. 


64  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

"Try  him,  for  God's  sake,  Brett!  Hugh's  messed  it, 
somehow,  and  Greg  doesn't  —  understand." 

Then  Bradbroke  turned  deliberately  to  them.  "You're 
wrong,  all  of  you.  I  get  it.  But  let  Willouby  go.  I've 
got  something  real  to  tell  you." 

For  one  breathless  moment  incredulity  held  them. 
The  next  —  for  he  had  he  not  always  led  them? —  they 
pressed  closely  around  him,  noting  his  strange,  wild  glad 
ness. 

"Sit  down!"  he  commanded  with  a  swift  glance  at 
the  door.  And,  when  they  obeyed  him,  he  began,  in  a 
low,  tense  whisper,  and  with  still  glad  and  glowing  eyes. 


CHAPTER  VI 
STRANGERS  TO  SOUTH  AFRICA 

AS  THE  two  men  emerged  from  the  club,  the  Ameri- 

/  %      can   filled  his  pipe  and  returned  Hackluytt's 

JL      m    pouch  to  him.      "Thanks,"  he    said,    as    he 

stopped  to  light   a    match    and   draw   the    flame   well 

down  into  the  tobacco,  which  he  had  crammed  into  the 

bowl. 

The  Colonel  watched  him.  "Have  another  match," 
he  urged,  after  a  moment;  "it's  not  fairly  lighted.  Odd, 
too,  for  one  of  the  best  things  about  it,  after  its  taste  and 
strength,  is  its  being  so  easy  fired.  Fingers  damp, 
maybe." 

The  American's  fingers  were  damp.  But  instead  of 
owning  it,  he  used  the  second  match,  puffing  until  the 
cloud  of  smoke  hid  his  big-boned  face.  The  truth  of  it 
was,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Ormsby  felt  not  wholly 
at  his  ease.  And  his  next  words  showed  it' 

"Your  story  was  terrible,  Colonel.  I  take  it  you 
don't  tell  it  to  many." 

"Not  many  women,  anyway.  Sets  'em  thinking  all 
sorts  of  things!  Would,  I  mean.  That  is,  I  fancy  it 
would.  Besides  old-timers,  and  chaps  with  nerves  I'm 
sure  of,  I've  never  given  it  to  a  living  soul,  or  ever  will, 
for,  as  you  say,  it's  terrible.  Of  course,  no  matter  how 
much  I  swear  it's  truth,  there're  a  stack  won't  believe 

65 


66  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

it.  I  don't  mean  you,"  he  added  hastily.  "No,  I  don't 
mean  you,  sir.  I  can  see  you  believe  me.  But,  just  as 
I  said,  there're  some  who'd  only  laugh."  He  shook  his 
head  resentfully,  then  guardedly  studied  the  American. 
"You  do  believe  it,  don't  you?  I  swear  it's  gospel 
truth!" 

"You  needn't  swear  to  it,  Colonel,"  said  the  big  man, 
"though  I  don't  know  whether  it's  just  because,  or,  in 
spite  of,  the  fact  I'm  a  stranger  to  South  Africa.  No 
matter  which,  I  believe  it,  and  it's  a  wonderful  story. 
It'll  be  an  amazing  one  to  take  home  with  me,  when  I 
go  back." 

"Good!"  Hackluytt  cried.  "That's  good.  I'm  glad 
you  say  that.  By  the  way,  when  are  you  going?  Hope 
not  very  soon.  Like  to  have  you  along  on  here.  Not  a 
bad  little  city,  y'know.  Of  course,  I've  been  in  South 
Africa  so  long  I  couldn't  stand  leaving  it  now.  Nothing 
could  cut  me  loose,  sir !  I  tell  you,  after  a  man's  been 

here  the  way  I  have Well,  I've  got  so  out  of  England 

I've  got  by  wanting  to  go  back.  Didn't  always  feel  so. 

These  younger  men !  Then,  too,  they  came  down  for 

a  different  reason  than  I  did:  I  came  down  to  fight  —  that 
was  '79,  mind! —  and  they  came  down  to  go  back.  But," 
with  sudden  feeling,  "South  Africa's  no  place  for  a  woman 
—  girl,  I  mean  —  unless  her  heart's  here.  You  know 
what  I  mean:  she's  always  looking  home;  and  South 
Africa  and  England  keep  everlastingly  far  apart.  Oh, 
I  know;  I've  seen  'em.  Bad  enough  for  a  man,  's  I've 
said,  when  he's  trying  to  see  London  from  Durban;  but 

for  a  girl ?"  He  jerked  his  head  once  toward  his 

left  shoulder,  "I've  seen  'em,  an'  it's  rotten  bad  seeing!" 


STRANGERS  TO  SOUTH  AFRICA        67 

He  shot  a  hand  toward  a  pile  at  the  right.  "You  can 
always  find  me  there,  day  or  night,  on  the  top  floor,  when 
I  ain't  at  the  club.  Come  in  an'  see  me,  sir.  Glad  to  have 
you.  And  I'll  have  the  tobacco  ready,  some  of  this, 
'McHollisburg  Range.'  I  like  it,  even  if  it  is  Boer  stuff, 
for  it's  strong  and  loose  and  dry." 

"I'll  come  and  be  glad  to,"  the  big  man  promised. 
Then  he  smiled  quickly.  For,  just  ahead  of  him,  he 
saw  another  stranger  to  South  Africa:  Marian  Langmaid 
had  just  emerged  from  a  shop,  and  now  was  walking 
ahead  of  him  up  West  Street. 

Though  she  walked  freely,  almost  rapidly  —  somehow, 
he  had  known  she  would  walk  that  way  —  he  at  once 
overtook  her. 

"I've  wanted  to  see  you,"  he  said  frankly,  not  trying  to 
hide  the  pleasure  her  presence  gave  him.  "May  I  walk 
with  you?  " 

"Yes,"  she  said,  with  equal  directness,  allowing  him 
to  fall  into  step  with  her. 

Though  she  had  smiled,  he  saw  that  her  face  was  very 
thoughtful.  They  were  both  very  simple  and  honest 
about  it,  for  she  affected  nothing,  and  he  was  unconscious 
of  the  significance  of  her  letting  him  see  that  something 
troubled  her. 

For  a  moment  he  watched  her  profile.  But  admiration 
is  not  the  deepest  of  the  emotions,  and  he  said  quickly: 

"I  wish  you'd  tell  me." 

She  looked  up  into  eyes  whose  message  would  have 
been  clear  to  her  if  she  had  been  less  in  need  of  a  strong 
man's  strength.  More  than  that,  while  another,  and 
weaker,  man  would  have  urged,  the  big  man  waited.  It 


68  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

went  well  with  the  dependability  of  his  big-boned  face, 
and  his  wonderful  vitality;  and  she  came  closer  to  him. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "there  is  something  — 
Anne." 

He  schooled  his  features  to  hide  his  relief  that  her 
anxiety  did  not  arise  from  herself. 

"  Miss  Netherby."  He  inclined  his  head,  as  they  turned, 
and  walked  on.  "You  mean  last  night?  Yes,  I  know." 

She  corrected  him  with  the  frankness  of  youth  or  of 
mature  acquaintance.  "No,  Mr.  Ormsby,  I  don't  mean 
that.  At  least,  that's  not  all.  I  saw  her  this  morning, 
and  she Oh,  it  is  too  terrible!"  Her  gesture  con 
fessed  her  sense  of  impotency.  "And  I  am  so  free.  We, 
you  and  I,  are.  While  Anne  —  The  right  word 

tarried,  and  she  expressed  it  by  sending  out  her  slender 
hands. 

He  understood  her  —  it  was  wonderful,  how  they 
understood  each  other:  it  was  the  rebellion  of  girlhood 
that  girlhood  should  encounter  pain. 

"There  must  be  something  we  can  do  for  her!  She 

can't  be  allowed She's  very  desperate !  One  can't 

think  how  long  she's  been  fighting  off  such  a  surrender 
to  self  as  this!  You  mustn't  think  she's  not  brave!" 
She  looked  up  at  him  quickly,  to  search  his  face.  "She's 
tried  so  hard.  I'm  sure  any  one  —  myself.  Yes,  indeed ! 
For  it's  so  unbearable,  even  when  we  can't  begin  to 
imagine  the  worst  of  it!"  She  meant  that  he  must  be 
quite  sure  of  Anne's  courage. 

And  again  he  caught  her  meaning  at  once.  "Of  course." 
He  spoke  as  of  a  fact  too  familiar  to  require  comment. 
"I  saw  that,"  he  said,  "at  once." 


STRANGERS  TO  SOUTH  AFRICA        69 

She  nodded,  gratefully.  "And  I've  been  with  her,  of 
course,  most  of  the  morning.  All  of  it,  except  when  Mr. 
Bradbroke  was  there." 

"That's  good,"  he  said  quickly.  "I'm  glad  he  went. 
He's  all  right,  Bradbroke.  Wish  they  were  married. 
But,  anyway,  they're  engaged." 

He  looked  at  her  for  corroboration,  and  was  half- 
perturbed  at  her  not  turning.  "It  would  be  very  dif 
ferent,  if  they  weren't  —  I  mean,  if  she  had  to  stand  this 
exile  here,  without  him,  alone." 

This  time  she  did  turn.  "I  don't  know.  I  know  that 
it  ought  to  be.  Last  night,  I  felt  just  as  you  do  now, 
and  I  was  very  glad  for  her.  But,  this  morning,  it  seems 
to  me  that,  instead  of  making  it  easier  for  her,  Mr. 
Bradbroke  is  — — "  She  broke  off  abruptly. 

"You  don't  mean,"  he  burst  out,  "that  Bradbroke's 
gone  and  acted  like  a  cad?  I'm  sorry.  I'd  not  once 
thought  he'd  be  that  sort.  In  fact,  I  took  to  him  no 
end.  I  don't  know,"  he  appealed  to  her,  "you  strike  so 
many  men  who  seem  unlucky,  not  meant  for  the  rough 
and  tumble.  And,  once  you  get  thinking  a  man's  that 
way,  it  doesn't  make  any  difference  how  clever  and  bril 
liant  he  is,  you He  shook  his  head,  conscious 

of  his  failure  to  state  it  well.  "I  wish  I  could  tell  you 
just  what  I  mean." 

Unconsciously,  he  had  verified  her  opinion,  born  in  the 
first  moment  of  their  meeting,  that  he  had  this  side. 
And  she  flashed  at  him  a  little  glance  of  admiration  which 
shook  him.  Perhaps,  she  was  afraid  of  having  made  an 
admission,  for  she  retreated  instantly  from  the  personal. 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  though,  with  a  little,  friendly 


70  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

nod,  "of  course.  But,"  going  suddenly  on  again,  "you 
mustn't  think  that  Mr.  Bradbroke  —  that  he  didn't  — 
that  he  fell  short.  I  didn't  stay,  of  course,  but,  from  what 
Anne  said  after  he'd  gone,"  she  coloured  suddenly  — 
"he  must  have  been  very  nice  to  her."  She  had  turned 
altogether  from  him,  and  he  looked  straight  ahead,  away 
from  her. 

"I'm  awfully  glad,"  he  said  deliberately.  "But,"  after 
a  moment,  "you  said 

"I  meant  that  their  being  engaged  makes  it  harder, 
because  they  want  so  to  be  married,  and  it  seems  there's 
no  chance  of  their  ever  doing  it."  She  hesitated.  "Anne 
says  they  can't  even  announce  their  engagement  yet. 
That  must  be  terrible."  Again  she  looked  precipi 
tately  away  from  him. 

Then,  because  her  little,  sudden  fits  of  shyness  seemed 
to  him  the  most  utterly  wonderful  things  he  had  ever 

seen,  he  laughed  outright.  "You  poor  little "  He 

stiffened,  and  became,  as  suddenly,  very  grave  indeed, 

very  severe,  even  forbidding.  "I  was  just  thinking " 

What  had  he  been  thinking  except  of  the  happiness  it 
would  be  to  be  the  man  —  himself,  of  course  —  who 
would  come  to  the  aid  of  this  shy-eyed  girl  at  his  side, 
in  such  a  crisis  as  she  had  ascribed  to  Anne?  He  said  to 
himself,  "I  must  be  very  careful  indeed."  And  he  meant 
it,  and  would  be,  though  his  next  thought  was  "I  wish 
she'd  turn  this  way  again,  for  I've  got  her  eyes  now"  — 
evidently,  he  had  forgotten  his  identification  of  them  on 
the  preceding  evening,  and  they  had  been  puzzling  him; 
"they're  like  English  violets.  She  is  herself:  she's  an 
English  violet." 


STRANGERS  TO  SOUTH  AFRICA       71 

But  she  did  not  turn,  and  he  went  on,  aloud:  "Please, 
don't  worry  about  them :  they've  got  each  other,  and  that's 
the  whole  thing,  when  all's  said  and  done.  They're  hard 
up,  just  now;  but  what  does  that  matter,  what  does 
anything  matter,  when  they're  got  each  other,  when 
they're  engaged?"  He  became  aware  that  he  was  repeat 
ing  himself  again.  Her  profile,  her  gentleness,  and  her 
recurring  shyness,  and  the  curve  of  her  cheek,  and  the 
blue  of  her  eyes,  made  him  repeat  himself.  He  broke 
out  again,  trying  to  speak  naturally  in  spite  of  the  madness 
of  his  thoughts.  "I  mean  every  one's  hard  up,  at  one 
tune  or  another.  I've  known  a  lot  that  way.  My 
brother  married  one  of  the  dearest  girls  in  the  world" — 
suddenly,  he  realized  that  he  had  never  fully  appreciated 
Tom's  wife  before;  and  he  hurried  on,  loyally — "they 
were  everlastingly  hard  up.  Tom  was  writing.  He's 
landed  now,  making  all  sorts  of  money.  But  he  wasn't 
then,  and  they  had  some  bad  times.  He  had  to  look 
around  for  something  else  to  live  on,  until  the  editors 
and  publishers  could  see  what  good  stuff  he  was  doing. 
He  had  to  write  at  night,  and  do  something  else  by  day. 
He  got  a  berth  in  New  York,  as  a  settlement  worker, 
at  one  hundred  dollars  a  month.  And  Tom  and  Janet 
and  the  baby  got  along  on  that  and  what  Tom  took  in 
from  his  stories.  Tom  hated  social  work,  but  he  suffered 
trying  to  help  those  people  and  being  held  back  by  red- 
tape  and  a  lot  of  other  mechanical  nonsense.  And  every 
thing  in  him  cried  out  for  work  which  was  world-wide 
different.  Tom's  heart  was  all  in  his  writing,  and  he'd 
keep  getting  those  inspirations  of  his,  even  while  walking 
there  in  those  dirty  alleys,  the  people  drinking  and  fighting, 


72  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

the  babies  crying,  and  the  whole  thing  one  dissolute, 
diseased,  sordid,  wretched  reek.  I  say,  while  he  was 
working  there,  investigating  a  family,  he'd  think  of 
something  that  was  just  what  he  wanted  in  one  of  his 
chapters,  something  about  one  of  his  book  people;  no, 
not  that  either,  for  his  characters  were  real  people  to 
him,  and  they'd  follow  him  like  dogs  about  those  howling 
streets;  and  he'd  dash  into  a  court  or  a  doorway,  and 
stick  it  down  in  his  notebook,  then  go  on  again,  trying 
to  get  a  crazy  woman  or  a  madman  into  some  sort  of 
sanity  and  gentleness. 

"It  hurt  him,  that  work  did.  I  don't  know  whether 
I'm  making  it  clear  or  not,  but  I'm  trying.  I  say,  his 
heart  was  in  his  writing.  He  was  made  and  meant  to 
write.  Probably,  his  seeing  that  side  of  the  world  made 
him  write  better.  He  says  so.  But  he  got  all  he  needed 
of  it,  yet  couldn't  get  himself  out  of  it,  for  the  editors 
hadn't  decided  on  him  yet.  He  used  to  get  discouraged 
almost,  though  never  quite.  He'd  say  to  us : 

'  'If  only  I  could  put  all  my  time  on  writing ' 

For  his  characters,  his  own  people,  those  he'd  created, 
haunted  him,  alluring,  fascinating,  almost  dominating. 
They  clung  to  him.  But  it  had  to  be  social  work,  and 
the  slums  and  the  shames  and  the  shams  of  it!  And 
Tom  would  rage,  and  Janet  would  comfort  him.  It's 
all  years  back,  now,  and  Tom's  one  of  the  big  ones,  back 
there  in  America.  But  he  and  Janet  did  have  hard 
times,  just  as  Bradbroke  and  Miss  Netherby  are  having 
now.  And  they  got  through  them,  just  as  these  two  will. 
Everybody  gets  hit,  one  way  or  another,  Miss  Langmaid. 
Have  I  tired  you  out,  by  running  along  so?" 


STRANGERS  TO  SOUTH  AFRICA       73 

She  looked  up  at  him  this  time.  "Not  at  all,"  she  said 
gratefully.  "It's  taken  my  mind  off  —  I  mean  lifted  it 
out  of  the  drift  it  had  gotten  in.  You've  helped  me, 
and  I'm  very  thankful.  Only,"  and  she  kept  her  eyes  on 
him,  "I  hope  that  Anne  and  Mr.  Bradbroke  can  stand 
it  as  well  as  your  brother  and  his  wife  did.  That's  all 
I'm  afraid  of:  something  —  I  can't  express  it;  but  some 
thing  makes  me  afraid.  I  don't  understand  South 
Africa." 

His  mood  changed  with  hers.  "Don't  let  anything 
frighten  you,"  he  urged  gravely.  "  Don't  be  anxious  about 
them.  I'll  tell  you  what:  you  see  what  you  can  do  cheer 
ing  up  Miss  Netherby,  and  I'll  look  out  for  Bradbroke. 
We'll  manage  something." 

She  was  smiling  again,  for  he  was  irresistibly  enthusias 
tic  and  confident. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "we'll  see  what  we  can  do  for  them. 
Are  you  going  to  be  on  in  Durban  a  while,  Mr.  Ormsby? 
I  hope  so.  Have  you  any  idea,"  she  asked,  "what  you 
can  do  with  Mr.  Bradbroke?" 

He  smiled,  then  laughed  frankly.  "I  should  say  I 
have !  This :  I  always  have  cracking  good  luck  speculating 
—  the  market,  you  know ;  and  never  better  even  in  Wall 
Street,  back  home,  than  right  down  here  in  Kimberley. 
I'm  going  to  cultivate  Bradbroke.  Of  course,  I'm  putting 
up  with  him,  down  here,  and  that's  something  for  inti 
macy,  but  I'm  going  to  bring  him  a  lot  closer,  then  get 
him  investing."  He  laughed. 

"But,"  she  discouraged,  "if  he  hasn't  anything  to 
invest Anne  said  — — " 

He  brushed  aside  her  objection.     "I  don't  care  what 


74  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

she  said.  I'll  see  to  the  money  part,  and  get  him  invest 
ing,  then  control  his  investments,  and,  before  he  knows  it, 
he'll  be  hauling  in  money  so  fast  that,  even  after  he  and 
Miss  Netherby  have  married,  he  won't  know  what  to  do 
with  it!  Stay  on  in  Durban?"  he  demanded,  his  eyes 
shining.  "I  should  rather  think  I  am!" 

She  was  staring  at  him,  incredulously.  "Do  you  mean 
that  you  think  you  can  make  Mr.  Bradbroke  make 
money,  enough  money?"  Her  hands  had  gone  out. 
She  was  breathing  uncertainly. 

"That's  just  what  I  mean,"  he  promised.  "You'll 
see." 


CHAPTER  VII 
STAYING  ON 

HE  LEFT  her  at  the  gate,  watched  her  turn 
swiftly  up  the  long  drive,  was  rewarded  by  a 
little  unconscious,  friendly  wave  of  her  hand 
as  she  turned  the  first  bend  and  then  swung  behind  the 
banking  trees. 

Simultaneously  he  faced  off  to  his  rooms  or  the  club. 
He  didn't  care  which;  but,  for  some  occult  reason,  decided 
on  the  former.  He  was  wondering,  marvelling.  Then, 
deflecting  his  thoughts  to  Bradbroke,  he  asked  himself 
again  why  men  came  to  South  Africa.  And  he  did  not 
once  realize  that  it  was  such  men  as  himself,  or,  rather, 
such  extraordinary  success  as  he  had  won  there,  which 
drew  other  men  from  the  four  corners  of  the  globe  to 
Kimberley.  He  did  not  realize  that,  in  a  way,  he  himself 
had  boomed  Kimberley,  when  he  put  in  hundreds  and 
drew  out  thousands,  then  put  in  those  thousands  and  drew 
out  millions  in  exchange  for  them.  For  a  man  of  so  rarely 
keen  a  mind,  he  was  very  simple  and  free  from  self-interest, 
so  that  he  left  himself  wholly  out  of  the  riddle  he  was 
trying  to  solve.  What  he  thought  was : 

"I'll  stay  on  here  and  be  near  her"  He  seemed  to  be 
mixing  his  pronouns  —  at  least  the  girl  herself  would 
have  thought  so.  "I'll  get  a  private  line  in,  and  watch 
Kimberley  from  here,  that  way;  and  I'll  put  this  man 

75 


76  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

Bradbroke  on  his  feet  in  spite  of  himself.  Gad !  it's  not  a 
bad  thing  I'm  fixed  as  I  am!"  He  was  admitting  that 
his  luck  might  change  —  a  thing  he  kept  himself  always 
prepared  for;  but  he  would  tend  to  Bradbroke,  whether 
it  changed  or  not. 

He  was  perfectly  genuine  and  frankly  happy  about  it. 
It  was  almost  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  he  had  con 
gratulated  himself  on  having  won,  before  he  was  thirty, 
such  an  amazing  stake  in  the  world  of  finance.  He  could 
see  it  working  out  nicely :  it  could  be  nothing  in  the  nature 
of  a  loan,  to  Bradbroke;  much  less  a  gift  outright.  He 
could  not  put  the  money  in  Bradbroke's  hands  until  the 
moment  when  Greg,  whetted  into  envy,  had  begun  to 
come  back  to  the  game  of  investments  and  speculation, 
and  would  accept  the  tender  as  the  most  ordinary  transfer 
in  the  world.  Then,  the  casual  suggestion  that  a  little 
money  placed  here,  just  here,  in  Kimberley,  would  mul 
tiply  itself  to  an  unbeatable  certainty.  People  said  there 
was  no  such  thing  in  any  market.  The  big  man  laughed 
to  himself  contentedly.  He'd  tend  to  that  for  Bradbroke, 
as  he  had  tended  to  it  for  himself,  without  one  slip  in  the 
past  eight  years.  He'd  convince  Bradbroke;  and,  once 
started,  the  young  Englishman  would  leap  toward  the 
flood  of  gold.  Then  he'd  need  watching  and  controlling. 
The  big  man  knew  the  game.  And,  after  Bradbroke  had 
won  enough,  he'd  be  "burnt"  once,  just  enough  to  scare 
the  life  out  of  him;  and  Bradbroke  would  quit  and  stand 
pat:  he'd  be  safe.  The  market  would  know  him  no 
more. 

"It'll  be  sure  as  summer,"  said  the  big  man  to  himself. 
"It  can't  go  wrong!" 


STAYING  ON  77 

In  the  safe  seclusion  of  the  crowded  streets,  he  smiled 
lazily.  He  was  everlastingly  glad  he'd  come  to  South 
Africa,  which  now  meant  Durban  to  him.  He  told  him 
self  that  he  liked  the  little  dark  city  crouched  there  at 
the  foot  of  the  high  veldt.  He  liked  the  people.  He  was 

going  to  help  two  of  them.  One  of  them,  he  would 

He  did  not  smile,  now.  It  was  uncertain,  that  was.  His 
face  changed,  for  he  knew  that,  if  he  lost  her,  the  world 
would  not  hold  one  thing  for  him.  He  had  forgotten  the 
club,  and  was  at  the  rooms,  now,  revolving  the  thought 
intimately. 

Soon  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  caught  up  his  sun-topi. 

"First,  Bradbroke  and  Miss  Netherby,"  he  said  to 
himself.  He  would  start  working  at  once,  working  for 
them.  He  meant  for  Her;  but  he  did  not  say  it.  What 
he  did  say  was  utterly  lacking  in  romance  or  sentiment: 

"I  wonder  where  I  can  find  Bradbroke." 

Greg  would  be  at  the  club,  he  guessed,  the  next  instant. 
He  had  suddenly  gotten  into  the  way  of  thinking  of  him 
as  "  Greg."  The  four  would  be  there  with  him :  Chadwell, 
Carstairs,  Fraser,  and  that  chap  with  the  voice  —  Paxton. 
He'd  go  there. 

He  went,  and  found  them,  as  he  had  felt  he  should. 

They  seemed  much  more  collected  now  than  when  he'd 
left  them  an  hour  before  and  gone  out  with  Hackluytt. 
Could  that  have  been  only  an  hour  ago? 

Yet,  though  more  collected,  they  could  not  have  been 
said  to  meet  the  big  man  halfway:  They  stared  at  him 
for  a  long  moment  in  silence.  Then  they  spoke  indif 
ferently.  Finally,  Chadwell  suggested  tennis.  "If," 
he  amended,  "it  were  forty  degrees  under  what  it  is  in 


78  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

the  shade,  if  there  were  such  a  thing  as  shade."  He 
seemed  obstinately  to  doubt  it,  though  he  "hoped  so; 
somewhere"  Chadwell  began,  suddenly,  to  smoke  hard. 
Fraser  followed  his  example,  a  natural  act:  the  youngest 
to  follow  the  lead  of  the  oldest  man  in  the  room.  Paxton 
nodded  vaguely.  Carstairs  said  he  felt  "done.  The 
heat,  probably."  It  was  hot;  but  the  American,  charged 
with  all  the  dynamic  force  with  which  Catherine  Heth- 
eridge  had  taunted  him  so  baldly,  felt  none  of  it. 

Bradbroke  seemed  to  read  this.  "I  envy  you,"  he  said 
languidly.  "Have  a  drink?  Sorry."  Then  he  relapsed 
into  silence  as  the  others  had.  And  finally  he  shelved 
conversation  by  saying: 

"Ormsby,  you've  come  to  the  last  place  in  town  for 
decent  treatment;  but,  really,  old  chap,  we're  not  fit. 
I  don't  know  what  the  rest  of  you  chaps  are  off  for,  but 
I'm  going  to  see  if  there's  such  a  thing  as  cool  water  in 
the  shower-bath." 

"Never  mind,"  said  the  big  man  good-naturedly, 
after  Greg  had  taken  leave  of  them.  "Go  ahead,  the 
rest  of  you,  and  get  cool,  if  you  can."  To  himself  he 
said  as  he  went  out:  "After  that  thing,  last  night,  the 
only  wonder  is  they're  not  downright  rude." 

He  meant  their  poverty  and  his  money,  and  wished, 
for  their  sakes,  that  they  thought  him  as  bankrupt  as 
themselves.  Oh,  well,  he'd  get  them  over  thinking  about 
that  unequal  distribution.  That  was  another  thing  for 
him  to  do.  And  still  another  was:  he'd  make  them  forget 
that  he  now  knew  them  as  they  were. 

He  turned  up  Berea  Road,  and  strolled  along  through 
heat  which  seemed  to  shake  the  very  street.  It  was  one 


STAYING  ON  79 

hundred  and  twenty  in  the  shade,  if,  as  Chadwell  had 
doubted,  there  were  any  such  thing  as  shade.  After  a  few 
moments  of  it,  his  pith  helmet  became  penetrable:  he 
might  as  well  have  been  bareheaded:  and  he  made  for 
Greg's  lodgings,  filling  his  pipe  with  what  remained  of  the 
Boer  tobacco  Hackluytt  had  given  him.  It  was  good 
tobacco.  He  decided  to  get  some  more  of  it,  next  time 
he  went  out.  Happening  on  a  tobacconist's  at  that 
instant,  he  reeled  in  and  bought  a  pound. 

As  he  emerged,  he  came  face  to  face  with  Catherine 
Hetheridge. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "walk  along  with  me.  It's  not  far, 
and  of  course  it  wouldn't  make  any  difference  to  you,  any 
way.  I  don't  mean  myself,  but  your  energy.  Why  is 
that  always  taken  as  such  an  insult  by  Americans?  "  She 
addressed  him  as  if  she  herself  were  a  man,  and  her  topic 
as  disconnected  with  John  Ormsby  as  the  moon.  "I've 
never  known  one  of  your  countrymen  to  like  it,"  she  went 
on;  "at  least,  they  never  seem  to,  and  so  I  keep  on  asking 
until  some  one  of  you  tells  me  why  it  stings." 

"We  don't  take  it  as  an  insult,"  he  said,  speaking  as 
idly  as  she  did.  "What  we  don't  like  is  your  implication, 
that  work  is  all  we're  meant  for." 

She  bowed  with  mock  respect.  "If  you  stay  here  long 
enough,  I  shall  become  educated,"  she  began  again,  in 
her  odd,  absent  way.  "You're  really  instructive,  and  I 
believe  you're  genuine.  Of  course  you're  giving  it  to  me 
so  straight,  every  time  we  talk,  is  a  pose  with  you,  just 
as  my  way  of  talking  is  with  me.  But  neither  of  us  mind 
that.  Don't  feel  flattered!  I'm  this  way  with  every 
one!  Besides,  I  know  I'm  going  to  marry  my  Jew,  in  the 


80  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

end  —  and  that'll  be  the  end,  for  me.    No  joking !     And 

you  —  I  know  that  you "     She  waited  the  merest 

instant,  then  went  on:  "It's  really  quite  romantic  —  is 
there  such  a  word?  I  mean  now?  "  Her  finely  drawn  brows 
came  together.  "  Well,  you  know  what  I  mean,  anyway ! 
What  was  I  saying?  Oh,  yes:  that  your  coming  away  off 
out  of  civilization,  down  here,  was  romantic.  Don't  look 
so  self-conscious :  by  'you'  I  mean  'one,'  not  'two.'  I 
say,  your  coming  off  down  here,  with  all  your  money  and 
youth  and  strength  and  confidence,  and  meeting  —  such  a 
riddle  as  we  all  present.  Yes,  present  still,  for,  though  you 
think,  now,  that  you've  found  out  all  about  us,  you  never 
know  what  any  one  of  us  is  going  to  start  on  next.  We 
don't  know,  ourselves;  and,  that's  the  one  bracing  thing 
about  South  Africa.  Not  that  there  aren't  a  lot  of  people 
who're  happy  here!  For  there  are.  A  lot  who've  come, 
and  seen,  and  —  accepted  it.  I  mean  just  our  partic 
ularly  congenial  little  set  here,  who've  found  they  can't 
accept  South  Africa.  Can't.  Never  can  —  and  we've 
found  that  out.  You  find  out  a  lot  in  South  Africa! 
Take  my  own  case:  my  mother  brought  me  down  here 
ten  years  ago.  I  don't  know,  to  this  day,  what  we  came 
for;  but  there  was  a  little  money  left;  and  I  imagine  I  was 
to  marry,  then  the  three  of  us  go  back.  We  thought  this 
land  was  gold  and  diamonds,  and  the  men.  Well,  the 
money  lasted  my  mother  through  eighteen  months  of 
incurable  sickness,  and  unrelievable  pain,  at  the  best 
hospital  at  Cape  Town.  After  it  was  all  over,  I  got  a 
berth,  the  one  I'm  holding  still:  I  read  to  Madame 
Zelig.  Get  that?  The  combination?  Madame  Zelig! 
Every  morning.  She's  a  Jewess.  I'm  the  first  well-born 


STAYING  ON  81 

woman  she's  ever  been  able  to  buy,  and  she  keeps  our 
relationship  quiet.  You're  the  only  one  who  knows  of  it, 
outside  of  ourselves,  in  Durban,  or  even  South  Africa! 
But,  halfway  through  our  first  quarrel,  he'll  fling  it  at  me. 
Who?  Why,  the  son,  Beaconsfield.  Beaconsfield  Zelig. 
Get  that,  too?  How  slowly  your  mind  moves!  Yes,  of 
course:  now  you  have  it?  He's  the  man  I  told  you,  last 
night,  I'm  going  to  marry  —  Madame  Zelig's  son!" 

The  American  turned  on  her  harshly.  "  W  by  don't  you 
go  home  to  England?  I'll  give  you  the  money.  Go 
home  and  get  married!  Go  home  anyway!"  Suddenly, 
he  hated  Durban,  Kimberley,  South  Africa  —  all  of  it. 
He  hated  it,  and  he'd  take  Marian  Langmaid  and  Brad- 
broke  and  Anne  Netherby  out  of  it.  His  eyes  blazed.  "  Go 
home!"  he  commanded  the  girl  at  his  side.  "Go  back 
to  England  and  marry  some  one !  How  much  money  will 
it  take?  I've  got  a  lot  of  it." 

It  was  not  the  almost  insupportable  heat  which  made 
her  reel  against  him,  then  away  so  violently  that  he  caught 
her  wrist.  She  stared  at  him.  Her  lips  moved. 

But  he  would  not  listen.  "You've  no  right  to  talk  to  a 
man  that  way,"  he  broke  out  again.  "You've  no  right  to 
feel  that  way.  Nothing's  got  a  right  to  make  any  woman 
feel  that  way.  It's  this  crazy  country.  Yes,  that's  it! 
But  what  it  is  doesn't  matter.  I've  got  more  than  enough 
to  go  'round.  I've  got  more  than  enough  to  pack  every 
man  and  woman  I've  met  here  off  to  where  he  or  she  wants 
to  go,  and  set  them  up  there  and  let  them  live.  And  I'm 
going  to  do  it.  I  thought  you  were  all  of  you  wrong  about 
South  Africa.  But  you're  not  wrong.  You're  right. 
It' shell!" 


82  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

She  had  recovered  herself.  But  her  colour,  the  soft, 
even  colour,  which  not  even  ten  years  of  African  sun  had 
succeeded  in  bleaching,  had  left  her;  and  she  walked  by 
his  side  without  a  word. 

"Well,  what  do  you  say?  "  he  broke  out  again.  He  was 
still  full  of  rage  at  this  Africa  which  could  make  a  gentle 
woman  feel  what  this  girl  did.  He  loathed  South  Africa. 
More  than  that,  it  filled  him  with  a  vague,  and,  therefore, 
singularly  intimate  dread  for  the  girl  who  had  walked  by 
his  side  so  recently.  He  seemed  to  be  seeing  South  Africa 
for  the  first  time,  and  his  dread  mounted.  Well,  thank 
God,  he  was  able  to  carry  through  what  he'd  just  decided 
on !  He  was  able,  and  he'd  do  it :  get  them  out  of  it! 

"Come,"  he  went  on,  aloud;  "I'll  never  see  you  again, 
and  you'll  never  even  hear  of  me,  after  you've  gone  back. 
What  do  you  say? "  he  demanded  impatiently. 

She  stopped.  They  had  reached  a  gate  which  divided 
the  sidewalk  from  the  little  drive,  which  led  up  to  a  trim, 
cement  cottage.  She  stood,  still  mute,  looking  down  at 
her  slender  slipper,  and  tracing  its  delicate  contour  with 
the  end  of  her  folded  sunshade.  And,  when  she  lifted 
her  eyes,  he  saw  that  they  were  very  tired. 

"I  won't  ask  you  in,  though  I  might,  for  I  live  here, 

with  my  mother's  maid.  But,  about  that "  She 

hesitated.  "They  won't  let  you  do  it.  I  hope  you  stay 
here  as  long  as  she  does.  I  hope  it  for  her  sake.  For 
yours,  I  wish  that  you'd  leave  to-night.  And,  about  me," 
she  tried  to  smile,  found  that  she  could  not,  and  gave  up 
the  attempt,  with  her  old  frankness,  "I  believe  you.  I 
believe  you'd  like  doing  what  you  said  you  would.  I 
never  expected  to  hear  any  one  say  apything  like  that. 


STAYING  ON  83 

I  never  hoped "  She  shut  her  lips  hard.  "I  didn't 

think  any  man  could  feel  like  that.  I've  jeered  all  my 
life  at  America.  Now,  I'd  like  to  see  it.  There  must  be 
something  very  fine,  and  strong,  and  chivalrous,  and 
clean  about  it.  But  not  even  you  can  help  me."  Her 
eyes,  of  the  colour  of  the  blue  soil  of  Kimberley,  brimmed 
slowly  over,  and  she  watched  him  as  if  looking  for  the 
last  time  on  something  that  she  could  not  spare.  Sud 
denly,  her  hand  went  out,  taking  his  with  a  passionate 
strength.  Then  she  turned  and  walked  slowly  up  the  path. 

And,  because  he  knew  that  she  was  right:  that  his 
money  could  not  insure  safety  in  South  Africa  for  the  girl 
his  every  thought  dwelt  on,  and  that  her  anxiety  for  Anne 
would  hold  her  in  the  path  of  danger,  the  big  man  swung 
dully  back  into  the  street,  which  now  seemed  to  quake 
and  shiver  like  a  melting-pot. 

Subconsciously,  he  found  his  way  back  to  the  lodgings 
he  shared  with  Greg.  What  was  it  —  this  dread  which 
possessed  him?  In  all  his  normal  and  vigorous  life,  he  had 
not  glimpsed  the  least  even  of  its  counterpart.  He  shook 
his  head  slowly.  He  could  not  solve  it.  He  thought  of 
Marian,  her  youth,  her  utter  unconsciousness,  her  gentle 
ness,  her  tender  sympathy.  Catherine  Hetheridge  had 
said:  "For  her  sake,  I  hope  that  you  stay  here  as  long  as 
she  does.  For  your  sake,  I  wish  you'd  leave  to-night." 
What  could  she  mean?  What  could  his  dread  mean?  He 
tried  to  scorn  his  dread  away,  to  tell  himself  that  it  was 
merely  a  by-product  of  Hackluytt's  terrible  story, a  foolish, 
nerve-born  by-product,  and  that  Catherine's  words  were 
hysteria.  But  he  wired  his  agent,  Falk,  at  Kimberley : 

"Don't  expect  me  until  you  see  me:    I'm  staying  on." 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THAT  NIGHT  AT  THE  REGENT 

HE  STAYED  on.  At  first  he  was  confident  that, 
after  two  or  three  days,  a  week  possibly,  he  and 
Greg  should  have  resumed  the  old  footing  they 
had  achieved  on  Greg's  first  visit  to  the  shack  at  Kimber- 
ley .  How  informal  it  had  been :  the  meeting,  and  the 
life  they  had  taken  up,  as  a  result  of  it!  A  storm  had 
driven  the  young  Englishman  into  what  the  big  man 
called  his  "estate,"  the  quarter  of  an  acre  bit  of  wilder 
ness  on  which  he  had  stuck  up  the  little,  one-roomed, 
sheet-iron  house  where  he  lived,  with  his  one  servant,  a 
Zulu  boy,  who  worshipped  the  big  man  as  a  god. 

It  had  been  very  simple  and  pleasant,  there  in  the  shack 
of  sheet  iron.  Infernally  hot,  the  American  knew  it 
would  be,  when  the  dry  season  came;  but  proportionately 
snug  and  dry  through  the  wet.  He  had  had  his  favourite 
books  there;  and  had  received  his  month-old  magazines 
regularly;  had  smoked  his  pipe,  written  his  letters,  and, 
night  and  day,  had  tended  his  assault  on  Kimberley.  He 
had  come  to  South  Africa  on  a  vacation;  and,  stepping  off 
the  boat  at  the  Cape,  brown  and  brawny,  had  headed  at 
once  for  the  "fields."  The  first  night  at  Kimberley  he 
had  slept  four  hours.  He  had  slept  three  the  second, 
and  none  the  third.  For  the  opportunities  which  lay 
open,  before  eyes  like  his,  amazed  and  dazzled  him,  prom- 

84 


THAT  NIGHT  AT  THE  REGENT       85 

ising  such  returns  as  not  even  he  had  ever  dreamed.  So 
he  had  eliminated  such  a  non-essential  as  sleep.  He 
would  make  it  up  later.  Just  now,  he  was  on  a  vacation, 
and  must  get  things  moving!  He  got  things  moving. 
After  that,  he  made  money  as  boxes  are  made  in  a  box 
factory. 

That  was  when  Greg  had  "blown  in."  And  they  had 
taken  potluck  together. 

The  young  Englishman  had  found  the  American  inter 
esting,  first,  from  his  ridiculous  idea  that  service  through 
the  Boer  war  was  no  greater  test  than  service  for  a  similar 
period  in  the  Philippines.  At  that  stage  of  their  associa 
tion,  Gregory  Bradbroke  had  known  nothing  of  the  big 
man's  singular  grip  on  the  market,  and  the  wealth  which 
grew  in  those  clever  hands.  For  there  had  been  no  indica 
tion  of  any  superabundance  of  money  in  the  pipe  and  the 
suit  of  white  drill  and  the  one-roomed  shack  of  sheet  iron. 

Then,  some  one  had  told  Bradbroke  what  the  American 
was  quietly  doing  to  Kimberley,  and  it  had  nearly  fin 
ished  their  acquaintance,  then  and  there,  for  the  English 
man,  as  far  as  success,  or  hope  of  success,  in  the  "fields" 
went,  was  the  American's  antithesis. 

But  he  could  not  hold  out  against  the  frank,  good- 
fellowship  of  the  big  man,  and,  little  by  little,  the  two  had 
done  away  with  the  barrier  which  the  American's  tre 
mendous  fortune  had  set  up.  Little  by  little,  they  had 
discovered  admirable  points  in  each  other.  Little  by 
little,  it  had  become  natural  for  the  younger  man  to  camp 
with  the  other  in  the  sheet-iron  shack.  And,  from  that 
hospitality,  it  had  resulted  naturally  that  Greg  had  soon 
asked  the  big  man  to  visit  him  at  Durban.  It  had  come 


86  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

about  that  way.  And  now  the  American  was  the  Eng 
lishman's  guest  in  Durban,  put  up  at  his  clubs  —  the 
friend  of  his  friends,  the  guest  of  a  host  whom  he  saw 
hardly  once  from  dawn  to  dawn. 

In  any  other  situation,  Ormsby  would  have  known 
what  to  do.  The  sheet-iron  shack  waited  him,  back  at 
Kimberley.  But  now,  all  he  said  was: 

"Never  mind."  He  meant,  " Bradbroke'll  get  over  it 
just  as  he  did  the  same  sort  of  thing  at  Kimberley."  And 
again  he  was  right :  Greg  came  back  to  him  saying  frankly, 
"  All  sorts  of  sack-cloth  and  ashes !  I've  been  a  cad !  For 
give  me,  and  come  over  to  the  club  and  have  a  drink." 

"That's  the  ticket,"  laughed  the  American.  "As  a 
matter  of  fact,  you  have  been  rather  an  unsociable  owl. 
Now,  that  drink!  Then,  some  smoke!" 

It  was  ten  o'clock,  on  a  wonderful  evening,  the  air 
cooled  by  the  south  wind;  and,  as  the  two  swung  down 
Berea  Road,  the  big  man  told  himself  that  their  state  was 
more  normal  than  for  many  a  long  day.  The  old  cam 
araderie  of  the  life  in  the  shack  had  come  back  again ! 

If  Greg's  satisfaction  at  the  resumption  were  less  close 
to  the  surface;  if  he  were  more  reserved,  it  was  less  his 
fault  than  his  temperament.  At  least,  the  big  man  did 
not  measure  him  by  what  he  showed.  It  was  enough  for 
him  that  the  younger  man's  stride  had  recovered  its 
bounding  elasticity;  that  his  voice  had  won  back  its 
resonant  clarity  which,  when  heard  with  his  soft,  crisp 
enunciation,  made  one  take  it  for  granted  that  Gregory 
Bradbroke  sang.  Yes,  he  was  all  right  on  the  inside, 
and  the  big  man  smiled:  he  could  get  at  this  Bradbroke. 
This  Greg  he  could  help,  and  would  help.  The  hour  was 


THAT  NIGHT  AT  THE  REGENT        87 

coming,  when  he  could  lift  from  Anne,  and  therefore  from 
Marian,  the  now  low-hanging  cloud  of  Anne's  despair. 

The  big  man  laughed  as  he  thought  of  it.  He  knew  that 
Greg,  striding  along  beside  him,  probably  took  it  as  a 
reward  for  some  preposterous,  unheard  sally.  It  was 
all  perfectly  preposterous.  Never  mind.  He  would  do 
it!  Nothing  could  stop  him!  Half  a  million  and  more 
swung  into  the  hands  of  an  hitherto  inveterate  loser, 
just  as  Standish  had  done,  in  the  case  of  Pollard  on  Wall 
Street.  By  Gad,  the  thing  was  done  already!  Not  even 
in  his  most  fantastic  dreams,  had  he  dared  to  hope  for 
such  immediate  success  with  Greg ! 

"I'll  tell  her,  in  the  morning,"  he  said  to  himself,  as 
Greg  swung  in  the  door  of  the  Regent  Club,  and  they 
entered  the  living-room,  to  pass  on  from  there  into  one  of 
the  smaller,  private  lounging-rooms.  Paxton,  Fraser, 
Chadwell,  and  Carstairs  were  there,  Paxton  humming 
something,  at  the  piano.  It  was  "Mandalay,"  again, 
and,  this  time,  nothing  trammelled  the  splendid  voice. 

"Good  sand,"  said  the  big  man,  to  himself.  "Ever 
lastingly  good  nerve!" 

They  nodded  as  he  and  Greg  came  in,  though  no  one 
spoke  until  after  the  verse  was  done.  And  then  it  was 
only  a  quiet  welcome,  very  friendly  and  cordial,  which 
seemed  to  say:  "Yes,  we  just  won't  say  anything  about 
it  at  all;  but  you  know,  old  chap,  that  that  bally  ass 
didn't  sing,  that  night,  in  the  street.  So  you'll  do  as  we 
kave:  just  put  it  out  of  your  memory." 

Frank  talk,  then,  of  this  and  that,  kept  up  comfort 
ably  for  free  and  easy  hours,  over  whiskey-and-sodas. 
Then,  some  good  songs. 


88  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

"Not  much  about,  to-night,"  Carstairs  smiled  at  last, 
with  a  lazy  shake  of  his  handsome  head.  "Jem,  I  say, 
got  a  match?  You'll  be  in  on  the  races,  Ormsby,  next 
month,  of  course?" 

"I'll  answer  that,"  Greg  said.  "He'll  not  leave  before. 
You  remember,  Ormsby,  you  as  good  as  promised 
that." 

The  big  man  nodded.  "Don't  remember,  but  I'm 
content  to  leave  it  that  I  did." 

"For,  you  see,"  Greg  resumed,  "you've  got " 


:  What's  that?"  Chadwell  broke  in.      "I  thought 


Oh,  I  say,  you  chaps,  this  is  too  much!"  He  indicated  a 
long,  brown  arm,  which  had  crept  through,  between  the 
swinging  doors,  a  little,  earthenware  cup,  waiting,  up 
right,  on  its  palm. 

"Knock  up  the  steward,  or  one  of  the  'boys,'"  Fraser 
broke  out.  "Confounded  imposition!" 

"Right  O,"  from  Carstairs.  "So,  we'll  sweeten  his 
cup  for  him."  Carstairs  got  up,  with  a  burnt  match 
loosening  the  ashes  in  his  pipe. 

But  Paxton,  the  singer,  stopped  him:  "Not  much  we 
won't  that  way!"  He  thrust  back  Chadwell  and  Carstairs, 
and  clinked  a  coin  into  the  cup. 

His  reward  was  unlocked  for,  for  the  door  swung  slowly 
inward,  admitting  the  wildest  figure  in  the  world,  a  witch 
doctor  of  the  Zulus,  the  nGaka  of  the  old,  barbaric  school. 
He  wore  a  mutsha  of  reeds  and  a  shirt.  He  had  a  bag  at 
his  waist,  another  at  his  neck,  and  a  third  and  fourth  on 
his  shoulders,  the  bags  he  kept  his  "devils"  in.  He  was 
not  black,  the  American  saw.  He  was  the  colour  of 
chocolate  with  just  enough  cream  in  it  to  make  it  right 


THAT  NIGHT  AT  THE  REGENT       89 

to  drink.  He  was  incredibly  tall,  self-scarred  and  mar 
vellously  thin.  His  purpose  —  to  reveal  some  of  the 
occult  and  unknown. 

The  Englishmen  were  familiar  with  such  promises,  for, 
as  Hackluytt  had  said  a  fortnight  earlier,  witch-doctors 
were  a  commodity  with  which  Durban  was  overrun.  And 
the  American,  though  less  used  to  the  class,  had  had  long 
confabs  with  a  Burmese  fanatic,  and  delved  among  the 
wizards  at  Bombay.  But  this  magician's  procedure 
was  new  to  him.  The  nGaka  began  at  once,  telling  them 
of  things  they  had  lost  and  where  the  articles  would  be 
found,  inviting  verification  by  the  sending  out  of  mes 
sengers,  which  was  done.  He  affirmed  knowledge  of  the 
men  themselves,  and  rehearsed  it  until,  in  one  voice,  they 
silenced  him.  Next,  he  distributed  mental  messages, 
which,  though  less  clear  to  the  big  man  than  to  some  of  the 
others,  showed  telepathic  power  to  an  almost  inconceivable 
degree.  Then,  drawing  a  circle  on  the  floor,  the  witch 
doctor  grew  a  basket  from  nothing,  and,  from  the  basket, 
a  child,  who  presented  the  earthenware  cup  to  receive 
their  coins. 

"Always  the  tax  at  the  end,"  Eraser's  laugh  broke  in. 
"Gad,"  with  a  look  toward  the  stately  magician,  "you 
niggers  never  forget  the  most  important  part!" 

"Not  much,"  Carstairs  followed.  "Wish  /  could 
dig  up  a  fake  that  worked  as  well.  Don't  give  him 
much,  you  chaps:  the  beggar  '11  haunt  the  club,  if  we 
do!" 

At  the  words,  the  magician  stepped  back. 

Bradbroke  swung  'round.  "Oh,  I  say,  don't  begin  again. 
We've  had  all  we  can  stand.  Our  acting  so  dazed  was 


90  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

for  your  benefit,  Ormsby.  The  stunts  he  got  off  were  only 
their  regular  menu!" 

The  big  man  smiled.  "I  must  say  you  fellows  pulled 
it  off  well.  But,"  suddenly,  "how  under  heaven  did  he 
know  where  I'd  lost  this  jade  seal?" 

"Dirty  beast  sneaked  it  out  of  your  rooms,"  Fraser 
accounted  instantly,  "just  as  he  did  our  stuff  out  of  ours, 
then  planted  it.  After  that,  his  'finding'  it  was  easy  as 
ABC!  They're  very  nice  thieves!"  He  turned  back  to 
the  nGaka.  "Time  you  were  off  to  your  mud  hut. 
What?  Oh,  I  say,"  as  the  witch-doctor  offered  his  earthen 
ware  cup  again,  "this  is  too  much!"  In  an  instant  his 
foot  had  sent  the  cup  to  the  ceiling  in  fragments,  to  fall, 
with  a  jingle  of  coins,  to  the  floor. 

In  one  bound,  the  magician  had  gained  the  doorway, 
his  face  a  fury,  his  features  alive  with  rage. 

"The  nGaka's  curse  on  you!"  he  screamed,  through 
their  laughter. 

"Curse  and  be  damned,  you  gibbering  fool!"  Fraser 
cried.  "The  funny-house  is  where  you  belong!  Curse 
away!" 

For  answer,  the  towering  ghost  in  the  doorway  stif 
fened,  then  writhed  toward  them  as  a  snake  writhes,  and, 
his  long,  emaciated  fingers  almost  on  the  American,  said: 

"Death  shall  come  fast  to  those  who  have  earned  the 
nGaka's  curse.  But  you,  umFundize,  who  have  offended 
the  least,  shall  be  the  last  claimed.  You  will  be  the  last 
to  die,"  he  repeated  forebodingly,  from  the  doorway,  "of 
those  now  sitting  within  this  room."  Then,  while  they 
waited,  wondering  if  they  had  indeed  heard  him,  he  melted 
into  the  blackness  of  the  night. 


'  'Death  shall  come  fast  to  those  who  have  earned 
the  nGakas  curse  '  " 


THAT  NIGHT  AT  THE  REGENT        91 

For  a  moment  they  stared  into  the  gloom,  as  if  expect 
ing  his  reincarnation;  but  the  small,  little  used  door, 
through  which  he  had  passed  to  the  shadows,  did  not 
move.  There  was  no  sign  of  life  or  light  or  motion:  only 
a  small  pyramid  of  dust,  as  if  a  mummy  had  been  un 
rolled  before  them,  then  returned  whence  it  had  come. 

"Death  fast  and  soon"  —  the  words  came  back  in  an 
haunting  echo.  Then,  even  the  echo  died.  Silence, 
then  —  as  of  a  world  struck  mute. 

"That  is  a  new  one,"  said  Carstairs  at  last,  slowly,  but 
with  a  laugh. 

"Yes,  it's  a  new  one,"  said  Chadwell,  the  oldest  man 
present.  But  he  did  not  laugh. 

The  big  man  felt  for  his  pipe.  "  I  imagine  they  have  to 
vary  their  programme,  like  other  artists,"  he  said  lightly. 
But  he  found  lightness  difficult.  Indeed,  it  was  from  an  odd 
nervousness,  that  he  had  taken  refuge  in  artificiality.  The 
nGaka's  words  held  him,  and,  in  an  effort  to  break  their 
spell,  he  went  to  the  piano  and  knocked  out  a  song  they 
had  all  sung  earlier.  He  sang  it  through  as  a  solo,  then 
swung  'round  on  the  stool,  surprised  —  or  was  he  sur 
prised?  —  that  the  others  had  not  joined  in.  They  were 
sitting  exactly  as  when  he  had  turned  his  back  on  them. 
They  had  not  sung.  They  had  not  spoken.  And  they 
said  nothing  now. 

It  was  too  much.  Suddenly,  and  out  of  a  clear  sky,  the 
burden  of  South  Africa  had  come  back  on  him.  What  was 
it?  The  old,  hated  question  from  which  he  had  thought 
with  such  joy  that  he  was  free!  He  looked  from  one  to 
the  other  of  the  men  before  him.  They  felt  it.  The 
evening  —  how  much  more,  he  wondered  vaguely  —  was 


92  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

over.  He  got  to  his  feet.  Once,  he  had  tried  and  failed 
to  wake  them  from  just  such  dead-eyed  dreaming.  He 
would  not  try  again.  He  thanked  them  for  the  pleasure 
of  the  evening,  ignoring  the  latest  incident,  and  said 
good-night. 

"Oh,  I  say,"  Greg  began,  with  a  visible  effort. 

Four  of  them  got  to  their  feet  then,  attempting  some 
explanation.  The  fifth  man,  Fraser,  did  not  rise. 

Something  in  the  boy's  inertia  struck  the  big  man. 

Greg  read  his  eyes,  followed  them. 

"Jem?"  he  began. 

The  boy  did  not  answer. 

"Jem,  I  say,  Jem!"  Paxton  demanded.  "Jem!"  He 
turned  his  insistent  questioning  upon  Bradbroke,  who, 
dumb,  was  loosening  Fraser's  clothes.  "Hammerstone," 
Greg  said  swiftly  to  Chadwell.  "He's  in  the  living-room, 
or  was,  when  I  came  in!" 

"Quick,  Chadwell,"  whispered  the  big  man  guardedly. 
"All  right,  Paxton,"  he  steadied  the  singer,  "it's  just  a 
faint!"  . 

"Carstairs,  take  Brett  off  me,"  Greg  commanded  irri 
tably.  "  Here,  Hammerstone ! " 

They  stepped  back,  surrendering  Fraser  to  the  doctor, 
who  had  followed  Chadwell  in;  watched  his  practised 
hand  find  the  boy's  wrist;  caught  his  resulting  frown;  saw 
him  bend  to  the  opened  shirt,  then  straighten  up  swiftly. 

"  Get  him  out  of  here !  I'll  take  him  myself.  The  next 
room.  More  air ! "  Hammerstone  swung  the  body  gently 
up  in  his  big  arms.  "Wait,"  he  said.  Then  went 
through  the  door,  which  Greg  and  Chadwell  held  back 
for  him. 


THAT  NIGHT  AT  THE  REGENT       93 

"I  say,  Hammerstone,  he's  just  fainted,  you  know," 
Paxton  begged,  from  the  window  to  which  the  American 
had  dragged  him. 

"That's  all  it  is,  I  tell  you."  the  singer  insisted,  breaking 
away  from  the  big  man,  and  following  Hammerstone. 

"Go  back!"  they  heard  the  doctor's  sharp  order, 

followed  by  the  singer's  entreaty,  and  then The  big 

man  knew  that  he  should  see,  to  his  dying  day,  the  look 
in  the  singer's  eyes,  as  at  last  he  came  haltingly  back  to 
them,  saying: 

"Fraser's  dead." 

Paxton  looked  uncertainly  around.  "He  can't  be,  you 
know,  though.  Hammerstone'll  be  in  in  a  moment.  Go 
get  him,  Hugh."  He  turned  toward  the  big  man  as  if 
for  seconding.  "You  leave  me  alone,  Carstairs.  I'm 
going  to  - 

Hammerstone's  coming  silenced  him. 

An  army  surgeon,  of  long  experience,  Doctor  Hammer- 
stone  heard  them  out  patiently,  then  nodded.  Told 
next  of  the  witch-doctor's  prophecy,  with  the  additional 
fact  that  the  nGaka  had  not  come  within  ten  feet  of 
Fraser,  and  couldn't  possibly  have  touched  or  wounded 
or  given  him  anything,  Hammerstone  nodded  again.  He 
had  encountered  similar  cases. 

"Not  frequently,"  he  admitted,  "but  more  than  once." 
His  face  was  the  colour  and  appeared  to  have  the  texture 
of  old  leather,  tanned  with  successful  perseverance  by  the 
torrid  sun.  He  looked  at  them  reflectively,  as  if  he  were 
very  old,  instead  of  not  yet  forty-five.  "Don't  let  this 
get  on  your  nerves,"  he  concluded.  "Remember  this  is 
South  Africa." 


94  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

"But  the  prophecy,"  Paxton  went  off. 

Hammerstone  nodded  again.  "Only  a  coincidence." 

The  big  man  turned  to  his  partners  in  the  hideous  thing. 

"Coincidence,"  he  heard  Greg  demanding  of  Chadwell. 
He  wheeled  back  to  the  doctor.  "But,  good  God, 
Hammerstone,  he's  dead!" 

Hammerstone,  of  the  old  face  and  the  young  body, 
nodded  again :  the  professional  calm,  which  the  American 
found  so  obnoxious.  "I  say,"  the  doctor  went  on,  "you 
mustn't  get  brooding  over  this.  I  know  it  looks  bad: 
on  the  face  of  it,  you  can't  any  of  you  live  any  great  while, 
for  one's  been  taken  at  the  start-off,  and  the  Thing's 
progressive.  But  I  warn  you,  you  mustn't  look  at  it  that 
way.  Call  it  what  I  do  —  a  coincidence.  That's 
going  to  be  hard,  maybe  at  first;  but  take  my  word  for  it, 
and  remember  I  know  this  country  better  or  worse  than 
any  of  you  do;  and  every  day  or  two,  even  I  have  to  build 
additions  to  my  power  of  credulity."  He  stopped  to 
nod  his  head,  as  if  to  himself.  "Yes,  after  all  I've  seen 
here !  So,  I  say,  if  I  were  in  your  place,  I'd" —  he  breathed 
and  swallowed  —  "I'd  call  it  South  Africa  and  a  coin 
cidence.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  that,  and,  moreover, 
any  other  theory  stops  every  one  of  you  just  where  you 
are."  He  looked  away  from  them,  toward  the  door. 
"I'll  go  back  in  there." 

Again,  the  musician  intercepted  him.  "But  the  body, 

Hammerstone.  You  know,  we  don't  want "  He 

hesitated,  then  turned  to  Chadwell.  "Tell  him  what  I 
mean,  Hugh ! " 

Chadwell  raised  moody  eyes  to  Doctor  Hammerstone. 

"What  are  we  going  to  do  with  his  body  —  with  poor 


THAT  NIGHT  AT  THE  REGENT        95 

Jem?  You  can't  —  oh,  I  say,  can't  you  do  something 
with  —  you  know  what  I  mean,  Hammerstone.  Why 
don't  you  help  me  out,  instead  of  making  me  say  it? 
There's  got  to  be  a  burial.  I  suppose  there  has.  If  only" 
—  he  caught  himself  —  "if  only  he'd  bolted  the  country! 
You  know  how  rotten  bad  this  is,  happening  here,  at  the 
club,  Hammerstone?" 

"Yes."  Hammerstone  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  bare 
floor,  then  looked  up.  "See  here:  I've  got  the  hospital, 
and  men  dying  off  every  day  or  so.  We'll  —  I  mean  you 
mustn't  any  of  you  say  Eraser's  dead.  Let  it  be  he  did 
bolt  the  country!  I'll  tend  to  the  body.  I  say,  you're 
making  a  scapegoat  of  me.  But  never  mind.  I'll  fix  it. 
I'll  have  it  buried  with  the  'unclaimed*  ones!  I'll  have 
the  ambulance  pick  it  up  in  the  street.  By  heaven!" 
after  a  glance  at  his  watch,  "you  know,  it's  near  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning?  I'll  have  the  ambulance  get 
around  here  now.  By  the  time  it  gets  back  to  the  hospital 
with  it,  I'll  be  the  only,  man  on  duty  there,  and  I'll  see 
to  it." 

Carstairs  caught  his  arm.  "Of  course,  you  know  you're 

acting  no  end  fine  in  this!  And  you'll  tell  us "  He 

turned  back  to  Chadwell.  "  Tell  him,  Hugh." 

"Hil  means  about  the  interment,  Hammerstone," 
Chadwell  said.  He  looked  across  to  Carstairs.  "That's 
what  you  mean,  isn't  it?  " 

Carstairs  nodded. 

Bradbroke  stood  by,  his  lips  pressing  hard  together, 
"  The  poor,  young,  little  chap.  Not  three  years,  hardly, 
down  here!"  He  moved  over  to  the  window.  "You'll 
remember,  Hammerstone,"  he  warned,  his  clean-cut 


96  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

figure  outlined  in  startling  white,  against  the  black  back 
ground  of  the  glass. 

"I'll  let  you  know  when,"  Hammerstone  promised. 
He  turned  to  the  doorway,  then  came  back,  to  stand  look 
ing  from  one  to  another.  "It's  odd,  you  know,"  he 
began,  in  a  lowered  voice.  "  You  chaps  tell  me  I'm  acting 
no  end  fine,  and  you're  this  and  that  grateful.  You  don't 
know  what  you'd  have  done  if  I  hadn't.  You  try  to  make 
me  think  it's  for  the  good  name  of  this  club  we're  all 
members  of.  But  all  the  time  you  know  you're  thinking 
of  yourselves;  and  I  know,  all  the  time,  that,  once  I've 
gone  out  of  here,  you'll  say  to  each  other,  think,  any 
way: 

"  'What  a  cold-blooded  devil  that  Hammerstone  is!  In 

his  place,  now ' "  He  nodded  his  head  again.  "You'll 

think  that  and  say  it,  and  I  know  it.  But  I'm  going 
through  with  it.  Good-night  and  don't  worry.  Let 
Eraser's  bolting  the  country  come  out  through  other 
people.  All  the  hospital  '11  know  is  that  another  wan 
derer's  passed  out  of  South  Africa.  Likely  the  News  '11  get 
hold  of  it  first  of  the  papers.  Let  'em!  They'll  come 
about,  asking;  but  sit  tight,  and  they'll  set  our  reticence 
down  to  the  friends  we  all  were  with  him.  Then,  they'll 
run  a  story  about  'Debts  and  High  Living,'  ending  with: 

"  'We  are  informed  that  the  young  man  was  last  seen  entering  an 
N.  G.  R.  carriage  at  Pieter  Maritzburg.  But  this  is  probably  only  an 
effort  to  deflect  suspicion  from  his  real  destination  —  the  Cape,  and  a 
steamer  to  the  States  or  to  England,  ultimately.' 

That  will  add  it  to  the  long  list  of  '  unfortunate  young  men 
who  should  never  have  come  to  South  Africa,'  and  it'll  be 
forgotten  in  a  fortnight!" 


THAT  NIGHT  AT  THE  REGENT       97 

He  went  to  the  door  again,  and,  this  time,  opened  it. 
"Good-night,  you  chaps,  and  don't  think  too  hardly  of 
me  for  helping  you." 

"Good-night,  Hammerstone,"  from  Carstairs  and 
Bradbroke.  Followed  quickly,  by  a  "Good-night,  Ham 
merstone,  old  chap." 

"I  say,  you're  acting  any  amount  fine,"  Carstairs  said 
again. 

The  musician  could  manage  not  one  word.  Standing 
beside  the  American's  great  figure,  he  did  not  make  even 
the  trial. 

The  door  swung  idly,  with  an  arc  which  slowly  dim 
inished.  No  one  moved  until  it  had  found  its  dead-centre 
a  little  off  the  sill;  as  at  that  other  visitation,  it  hung 
heavily  off,  measuring  the  steady  thrust  of  the  draft. 
And  the  five  men  studied  it  as  if  it  were  an  engrossing 
novelty. 

At  last,  Greg  turned  'round  until  he  faced  Ormsby. 
"  I'll  be  in  and  see  you  about  this  in  the  morning.  I  don't 
know  what  more  we  can  do  about  it  to-night."  He  looked 
from  the  big  man  to  the  others,  his  lips  moving  uncer 
tainly,  his  eyes  terrible. 

The  big  man  looked  down  into  Greg's  white  face. 
"Just  right.  And  I'll  stay  in  until  you  come,"  he  said, 
moistening  his  lips. 

Chadwell  and  Carstairs  and  the  singer  had  begun 
moving  toward  the  door.  The  five  reached  the  street 
together. 

"I  say,"  Paxton  came  up  for  an  instant  to  say,  "it 
was  just  a  bally  coincidence.  But  wasn't  it  raw  of 
Hammerstone!" 


98  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

"Hammerstone's  a  cold-blooded  beast,"  agreed  Car- 
stairs.  "  Perfect  swine !  And  he  called  it  a  *  coincidence.'" 

The  three  left  Ormsby  and  Greg  saying  something  about 
Chadwell's  rooms. 

Looking  after  them,  the  big  man  saw,  without  surprise, 
that  each  walked  uncertainly,  and  that  Greg,  at  his  side, 
instead  of  being  refreshed  by  the  salt  wind  which  blew  in 
their  faces,  was  staggering  like  a  drunken  man.  And  he 
knew  that  he  had  never  so  fully  realized  his  own  strength 
as  now :  a  sudden  chill  had  come  on  him ;  but  he  saw  by  his 
shadow,  which  loomed  like  a  ghost  ahead  of  him  when  he 
passed  each  street-lamp,  that  he  himself  was  walking 
straight.  "Hackluytt,"  he  thought.  "If  only  we'd 
remembered!"  He  meant  if  only  they  had  heeded  the 
warning  of  the  white-haired,  strong,  old  man!  He  knew 
that  Greg  and  Carstairs  and  Paxton  and  Chadwell  had 
remembered  as  tardily  as  he  himself  had.  For  they  had 
not  once  spoken  of  Hackluytt.  To  all,  the  big  man 
realized,  it  had  seemed  better  not  to  confess  having  for 
gotten  words  recalled  now  too  late.  A  tremor  shook 
him  as  he  walked. 


CHAPTER  IX 


YES,   he   was   walking   straight.     One  light  after 
another,    as   he   passed   beneath,  confirmed  it. 
He  was  walking  straight.     But  into  what?     And 
the  ghostly  shadow  which  preceded  him,  always  aiming 
at  that  unguessable  destination,  suggested  another  ghost 
—  the  one  which  loomed  behind.      No  shadow,  this.     He 
did  not  know  what  it  was;  but,  even  though  averring  his 
ignorance  of  it,  he  confessed  its  palpability. 

Or  was  it  palpable?  Back  in  that  quiet  room,  he  had 
just  left,  had  he  in  truth  encountered  this  haunting 
horror?  He  was  in  Durban,  his  brain  told  him;  but  was 
there  any  such  thing  as  Durban?  He  was  in  South 
Africa;  but  was  there  any  such  thing  as  South  Africa? 
In  spite  of  the  automatic  obedience  of  his  strong  muscles, 
to  his  will,  he  was  uncertain  almost  to  the  point  of  in 
credulity.  So  that  he  could  still  hope  • —  not  very  con 
fidently,  it  is  true,  but  in  a  way  he  found  steadying  — 
that  it  was  all  a  dream  which  the  morning  would  dispel. 
By  a  grim  effort  of  will,  he  shot  his  thoughts  back  to  a 
known  and  certain  anchorage:  he  had  left  America  for 
a  vacation  somewhere.  He  had  stopped  off  for  a  bit  in 
London,  and  a  man  he'd  run  into  there  had  set  him 
thinking  he  might  as  well  see  South  Africa.  Then,  the 
steamer.  Cape  Town,  then.  Next,  the  N.  G.  R.  That 

99 


100  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

meant  the  Natal  Government  Railway.  Then,  Kim- 
berley.  He  had  done  amazingly  well,  even  for  him,  at 
Kimberley,  and  had  a  great  time  of  it  in  a  sheet-iron 
shack  with  a  servant,  who  loved  him,  to  take  care  of  the 
place  and  cook  for  him.  An  Englishman  named  Gregory 
Bradbroke  had  run  in  on  him  there,  and  they'd  seen  a 
lot  of  each  other.  Then,  the  Englishman  had  carried 
him  down  for  a  month  in  Durban.  This  was  Durban. 
Up  there,  on  Berea  Road,  this  street  he  was  walking  on 
now,  lived  the  Netherbys.  There  was  an  English  girl 
there,  with  them.  Her  name  was  Marian  Langmaid. 
She  had  wonderful  hair  and  colouring,  and  eyes  like 
English  violets.  Anne  Netherby  was  engaged  to  Brad- 
broke.  They  were  wild  to  marry  and  go  back  to  England, 
but  they  hadn't  the  money.  The  English  violet  was 
sorry  for  Anne.  How  gentle  she  was!  He  had  never 
seen  any  one  like  her,  no,  or  any  thing,  except  an  English 
violet. 

He  nodded  his  head  in  acknowledgment  of  his  absolute 
security  in  seeing  her  an  English  violet!  It  afforded  him 
satisfaction  that  there  had  been  no  delay  in  his  recognition. 
He  should  have  fallen  short,  if  there  had  been:  all  that 
she  was,  made  it  her  right  that  he  should  identify  her 
instantly. 

His  thoughts  flowed  on.  He  had  told  her  that  he  would 
help  Bradbroke  and  Anne  Netherby,  by  putting  Greg 
in  the  way  of  making  effective  investments.  He  had 
promised  her  that  he  should  begin  the  instant  Greg 
gave  him  an  opportunity;  and,  after  holding  away  from 
him  for  two  weeks,  Greg  had  come  back  into  their  old 
relationship,  and  the  chance  had  started  coming.  Then, 


NOT  GOOD  TO  BE  ALONE  101 

he  had  gone  to  the  Regent  Club  with  Bradbroke  —  that 
was  the  name  of  the  club  —  and  the  chance  would  have 

come  straight  to  him,  if That  was  it,  the  thing  he 

came  back  and  back  to.  And,  now,  the  chance  to  help 
Greg  and  Anne,  and  to  relieve  Her,  could  never  come. 

He  shook  his  head,  putting  his  hand  to  his  forehead. 
He  felt  something  almost  approaching  amazement  that 
his  chance  to  do  what  he  now  knew  that  he  could  never 
do,  had  passed  with  such  finality.  And  his  amazement 
brought  him  back  to  his  earlier  question:  after  all  wasn't 
the  evening  there,  and  the  nGaka's  coming,  and  —  the 
rest,  only  a  dream?  He  strove  to  believe  it.  He  longed 
for  the  morning,  the  morning  which  should  bring  him 
back  to  himself,  the  morning  which,  broken  free  by  the 
swing  of  the  sun  up  out  of  the  Indian  Ocean,  should  restore 
the  hope  which  had  been  so  gloriously  dear  to  him. 

It  would  come.  Yes,  it  would  come.  But,  until  it 
came?  He  fell  back  on  the  question  again.  He  could 
not  get  past  it!  Trying,  his  thoughts  steeple-chased 
into  each  other,  and  he  could  not  stop  them.  So  again  he 
swung  them  back  to  America,  the  land  that  was  real,  the 
land  of  sound  realities:  back  there,  there  were  a  lot  of 
men  he  knew  well  and  could  rely  on  every  time.  His 
classmates,  many  of  them.  He  was  young  yet;  he'd 
been  graduated  only  eight  years  ago;  and  he  thought, 
with  a  sudden,  relieving  warmth,  of  his  undergraduate 
life,  its  freedom,  its  irresponsibility:  he  remembered  a 
club-dinner,  the  latest  (he  would  not  admit  it  could  be 
that  last)  he'd  been  at;  how,  in  the  middle  of  the  singing, 
a  dyed-in-the-wool  Easterner  had  turned  to  him  to 
say: 


102  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

"Peoria,  Illinois,  is  my  ideal  town!  Does  any  one  here 
know  the  Michigan  song?  We  don't  know  how  to  sing 
any  more  at  Harvard.  To  get  really  good  'harmony,' 
now,  a  man  has  to  go  to  one  of  the  Western  colleges!" 

Yes,  Scattergood  had  been  as  tight  as  that ! 

He  remembered,  and  smiled  again,  at  what  another 
man  had  told  the  room  of  having  gone  out  to  buy  a  water- 
power.  A  club-dinner,  in  junior  year,  yet  holding  up 
the  crowd  about  a  water-power!  "I  wanted  to  buy  it," 
the  man  had  detailed,  irrepressibly,  "and  how  much  do 
you  think  they  wanted  for  ten  days  of  fifteen  hours  each? 
What?  Six  hundred  hours  a  week.  Make  a  guess!  Make 
a  guess!"  He  had  insisted  that  the  room  should  "make 
a  guess."  And,  by  the  time  they  had  gotten  their  voices, 
and  begun  to  "guess"  for  him,  the  would-have-been  buyer 
of  water-power  had  fallen  asleep,  while  telling  them  that 
"Stepping-stones  were  but  the  Failures  of  Success." 

How  crazy  it  had  all  been!  How  senseless!  But  the 
men  were  all  right:  they  were  rarely  that  way.  Now, 
they  were  all  eight  years  out  of  college,  and  working  hard, 
took  up  more  space  in  cars  and  taxis  and  'busses,  and  had 
less  hair.  They  were  serious-minded  enough  now.  He 
remembered  them  as  he  had  run  on  them  later  in  offices  of 
all  sorts,  and,  representing  an  hundred  professions  and 
occupations  on  the  streets.  They  were  working  hard, 
getting  over-serious,  some  of  them,  most  of  them;  some  of 
them  had  struck  him  as  having  forgotten  what  relaxation 
was !  But  they  had  been  irresponsible  then  —  that 
evening  when  Scattergood  had  preached  of  Peoria,  and 
Harding  had  drowned  them  with  his  water-power.  How 
typical  of  that  time  had  been  that  Irresponsibility! 


NOT  GOOD  TO  BE  ALONE  103 

These  and  a  thousand  other  unrelated,  distracted,  dis 
organized  thoughts  telescoped  into  each  other  through 
his  runaway  brain  as  if  flung  there  by  a  jeering  imbecile. 
Jeering,  for  that  Irresponsibility  was  gone,  now  —  with 
such  desperate  speed  and  irrevocability  that  he  could 
already  look  back  on  it  as  on  a  thing  which  had  not  been 
his  in  a  century.  They  were  as  far  behind  him,  those 
happy,  idle,  careless,  care-free  days,  as  if  they  had  never 

been  his  even  momentarily.  Some  time He  caught 

himself.  What  had  he  been  going  off  on  then?  On,  his 
thoughts  flew,  automatically,  and  he  was  as  far  as  ever 
from  being  able  to  intercept  or  catch  up  with  them. 
It  was  as  if  he  were  just  on  the  point  of  falling  asleep, 
had,  that  is,  that  easing  contentment  which,  already 
merging  into  restful  oblivion,  abandons  thought,  and 
even  self,  in  sleep. 

But  he  knew  it  was  not  that.  He  knew  that  he  was 
fighting  to  get  back  his  point-of-view  of  two  hours  before, 
one  hour,  half.  He  was  trying  to  get  back  behind  the 
instant  when  the  witch-doctor  had  gone  and  Fraser  had 
died;  he  was  struggling  to  get  back  to  the  moment  when, 
so  full  of  hope  and  confidence  in  the  ability  of  himself 
and  his  money  to  keep  his  promise  to  Her,  he  had  said, 
in  his  heart : 

"Greg's  come  back,  and  brought  me  the  chance  to 
help  him.  In  the  morning,  I'll  have  something  to  tell 
Her!"  He  was  trying  to  get  back  to  that. 

But  he  couldn't.  For  this  was  in  truth  South  Africa, 
Durban;  and  the  witch-doctor  had  really  said  that;  and 
Jem  Fraser,  the  English  boy,  had  died.  That  was  what 
had  to  be  faced  now.  It  was  what  was  before  him.  He 


104  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

was  walking  into  it,  and  it  was  following  him.  It  was  a 
terrible  misfortune,  and  he  had  earned  it  in  no  way.  But 
it  was  his!  Death,  fast  and  soon! 

Moreover,  he  knew  that  the  Thing  must  always  be 
with  him,  no  matter  where  he  went  or  how  long  It  let 
him  live.  It  would  always  be  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue 
to  tell  people  about  It,  precisely  as  the  man  with  a  physi 
cal  affliction  always  tells  people  about  that,  as  if  his  fear 
that  they  wouldn't  discover  his  loss,  otherwise,  were  his 
closest,  most  lively  thought.  The  only  difference  between 
himself  and  the  physically  disabled  man  was  that,  whereas 
the  physically  disabled  man  could  tell  people,  he  himself 
must  go  through  the  world  without  the  relief  of  confessing 
speech. 

But  he  would  not  leave  South  Africa.  He  should 
stay  on  in  Durban.  Though  his  power  to  help  Anne  and 
Greg  for  Her  had  been  so  mercilessly  taken  away  from 

him,  he  should  stay  on  because The  truth  flashed 

before  his  eyes,  then :  it  was  so  that  he  should  be  near  her, 
close  to  her;  her  gentleness  was  what  his  stricken  strength 
needed.  He  could  not  do  anything,  now;  but  he  had 
seen  her  sympathy.  Her  softness  and  her  girlish  fragility 
would  support  him.  How  he  needed  them,  needed  all 
that  he  knew  she  was!  He  would  like  to  go  to  her  now, 
and  kneel  down  beside  her  and  feel,  on  his  face,  the 
touch  of  her  small,  soft  hands. 

Somehow,  he  had  found  his  way  to  his  rooms,  and 
staggered  up  the  stairs  to  them.  If  only  he  could  feel 
her  hands  on  his  temples!  His  face  went  down.  The 
sun  swung  up  out  of  the  Indian  Ocean.  Morning!  But 
the  hands  which  pressed  his  temples  were  his  own. 


CHAPTER  X 
MORNING 

MORNING!  And,  on  the  instant,  the  air  was  a 
glitter.  The  cool  air  of  the  night  was  stolen. 
His  rooms  seemed  a  vacuum.  He  knew  that 
the  wind  had  changed,  and  now  flowed  down  out  of  the 
equator  30  degrees  to  the  north.  He  realized  that  he  was 
fully  dressed.  A  fresh  riddle.  He  was  cramped.  Why? 
Before  he  was  conscious  of  the  gamut  his  thoughts  had 
raced  through,  they  had  circled  back,  like  a  hover  of 
pigeons,  and  he  knew  that  he  must  see  Bradbroke,  look 
him  up,  for  Bradbroke  might  delay,  and  even  the  bare 
thought  of  delay  was  insupportable.  For  so  much  hung 
on  the  answer  to  the  first  question  he  should  ask  Brad- 
broke  :  if  Fraser  were  really  dead. 

He  threw  off  his  clothes,  and  shaved,  and  splashed  him 
self  with  cold  water.  Ordinarily,  he  would  have  done  his 
setting-up  exercises,  as  any  anatomist  would  have  known 
from  the  muscles  of  his  arms,  legs,  and  back,  or  from  the 
way  he  moved.  But  now,  iron-bound  as  the  habit  was, 
the  big  man  did  not  once  think  of  his  setting-up  exercises. 
Breakfast  somewhere  —  to  fill  in  the  time.  Then,  Brad- 
broke.  Then? 

In  what  seemed  a  very  long  time  to  him,  yet  was  a 
matter  of  only  a  few  moments,  he  was  standing  in  the 
street.  Then,  he  realized  that  it  was  not  six  o'clock  yet. 

105 


106  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

Most  of  the  city  slept.  Bradbroke,  asleep  or  awake, 
would  ill-receive  him  before  nine.  And  he  turned  back, 
up  his  two  flights  of  stairs,  glad  that  he  had  removed 
his  stuff  from  Greg's  rooms,  and  got  rooms  of  his  own  a 
week  before.  But  of  one  thing  he  was  sure :  that  he  could 
not  wait  for  Bradbroke  until  nine. 

Unconsciously,  he  had  gained  the  habit  of  asking  him 
self  questions,  and  the  fact  recurred  to  him.  The  fact, 
and  its  predecessor  —  his  old,  unthinking  habit  of  the 
affirmative:  before,  he  had  always  said  things  straight 
out;  things  had  always  been  so  or  not.  He  had  claimed 
the  right  of  decision.  In  the  old,  irresponsible  days, 
which,  he  realized  now,  had  lasted  up  to  the  hour  of 
Eraser's  dying,  he  had  rarely  asked  questions,  least  of 
all  of  himself.  He  had  never  been  very  analytical. 
There  had  been  no  need.  But  now 

He  threw  the  curtain  back,  let  the  light  in,  and  stared 
at  himself  in  his  mirror.  Then,  he  leaned  closer,  though 
his  first  emotion  had  been  amazed  aversion:  did  he  look 
like  that?  More  questions!  He'd  got  to  stop  asking 
himself  questions.  The  habit  led  a  man  nowhere,  or  it 
depressed  him.  Either  must  be  avoided.  He  didn't 
know  which  was  worse.  Realizing  that  he  was  talking 
aloud  for  companionship,  he  felt  very  much  alone  and 
shook  his  head. 

"This  sort  of  thing  is  all  wrong,"  he  said  aloud.  "I've 
got  to  get  hold  of  myself." 

And  he  fell  back  on  his  habit  of  exercise  as  a  means  of 
getting  hold  of  himself.  He  went  through  all  his  con 
tractions,  and  twists  and  turns  and  swings,  until  his 
blood  ran  free  and  his  muscles  gave  friendly,  pleasantly 


MORNING  107 

reminiscent  cracks.  Then,  the  best  imitation  of  a  shower- 
bath  his  equipment  could  manage,  and  he  dressed,  won 
dering  how  he  could  have  gotten  into  his  clothes  before, 
without  first  having  those  eighteen  exercises  and  the 
rub-down. 

Then,  he  descended  the  stairs  again;  and,  this  time, 
making  the  sidewalk,  swung  off  down  the  street,  his 
pipe,  charged  with  the  strong,  dry,  Boer  tobacco,  lighted, 
the  smoke,  another  friendly  thing,  tasting  as  good  as 
the  carbonite  stem,  between  his  lips. 

As  he  knew  that  he  should,  he  walked  the  length  of 
Berea  Road  and  came  to  the  Netherbys'.  There  was  no 
sign  of  life  or  motion  there,  and  he  was  anxious  • —  until 
he  looked  at  his  watch  again.  It  was  going  —  somehow, 

somewhere,  he  had  wound  it  —  but He  looked  at 

the  clock  in  the  square:  it  was  only  half -past  six.  Two 
hours  and  a  half  until  nine  and  Bradbroke. 

He  turned  up  Essenwood  Road.  Seven.  Then,  Pine 
Street.  Half-past.  Next,  West  Street,  where  the  coolies 
and  Kaffirs  lived  —  no,  he  remembered  that  was  Pine 
Street,  he  hadn't  noticed;  but  now  seemed  to  remember 
that  some  of  them  had  stared  at  him  stupidly.  He  hated 
them,  and  wished  that  he  could  find  excuse  for  using 
his  fists  on  them,  the  desire  so  strong  that  he  walked 
back  to  Pine  Street.  But  no  chance  offered.  Still,  he 
had  gained  by  the  detour,  for  it  was  eight  o'clock,  when 
he  swung  into  Berea  Road  again.  Half-past  eight,  by 
the  time  he  made  his  lodgings  again.  It  would  be  nine, 
in  an  half  hour.  Then  —  yes,  and  there  was  Bradbroke, 
waiting  for  him  on  the  steps. 

The  big  man's  mirror  had  showed  him  a  face  which 


108  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

reduced  his  pulse,  then  raised  it.  But  not  even  his  mem 
ory  of  his  own  face  had  prepared  him  for  the  face  of  Greg : 
the  Englishman  had  the  look  of  a  young  man  turned 
suddenly  old;  he  was  unkempt,  who  had  always  been  so 
immaculate;  he  was  unbrushed,  and  unshaven;  he  could 
not  have  washed  in  a  fortnight.  He  must  have  gone 
crazy ! 

In  another  moment  he  had  Bradbroke  up  the  stairs 
with  the  door  fast. 

"Look  here,"  he  broke  out,  "you  can't  go  on  this  way! 
You  remember  what  —  what's  his  name?  Hammerstone 
said:  we're  not  to  tell  people.  And  you  will,  if  you  keep 
this  up.  Go  in  there  and  fix  yourself.  My  clothes  won't 
do.  They're  too  big;  but  you  can  manage  with  my 
razors  and  brushes  and  the  rest ! " 

In  his  anxiety,  the  American  had  asked  the  younger 
man  nothing.  But  after  Greg  had  obeyed  him  and 
emerged  from  the  dressing-room,  the  question  came  back 
dominatingly,  and  he  shot  it; 

"Brad  —  have  I  got  it  right:  did  the  witch-doctor  say 
that,  last  night,  and  did  Fraser  die,  Bradbroke?" 

"Yes,"    Greg   said   with   an   effort.     "You     .     .     . 
you've  got  it  —  right." 

The  big  man  stood  motionless.  After  all,  he  had  known 
it  all  along.  He  looked  slowly  about  the  room.  How 
quiet  everything  was !  He  went  to  the  window.  Clearly, 
the  city  still  lacked  their  secret,  theirs  and  Chadwell's 
and  Paxton's  and  Carstairs',  for  the  low-lying  hive  blinked 
negatively,  its  aspect  all  unchanged.  Then,  he  went 
back  to  Bradbroke,  at  once  to  wonder  again  at  that  gray, 
set  face. 


MORNING  109 

"Bradbroke,  I  tell  you  again,"  the  big  man  said, 
"you've  got  to  go  about  it  differently;  once  you're  seen 
like  this,  the  first  man  you  meet,  after  it's  out,  will  start 

an  inquiry.  I  tell  you "  He  leaned  closer  to  the 

younger  man,  placing  a  big  hand  steadingly  upon  his 
arm. 

At  the  touch,  Bradbroke  started,  then  sank  back  again. 

"Oh,  it's  all  right  for  you"  he  broke  out. 

"All  right,  you  say,"  the  American  breathed,  in  a  low 
whisper.  "You  say  it's  all  right  with  me?"  It  was 
hardly  a  question.  He  was  remembering  his  first  thought, 
on  the  sight  of  Bradbroke,  half  an  hour  back:  that  Greg 
had  gone  imbecile. 

The  younger  man  read  his  eyes.  "  No,  I'm  not  that,  any 
way  not  yet.  I  mean  you're  all  right — in  comparison." 
He  watched  the  big  man  for  a  long  moment,  then  shook 
himself  free :  "Yes,  and  you  are,  too,  I  say,  in  comparison, 
for  you  know  It's  not  going  to  hit  you  until  It's  finished  us. 
And  you  do  know  that,  don't  you?  Of  course,  you  do!" 
He  was  affirming  and  demanding  with  equal  resentment. 
"You  can  sit  tight,  and  watch  It  pick  us  off  like  birds  on 

a  branch!  I  say,  ain't  that  so?  While  we "  His 

voice  trailed  off  into  an  unintelligible  whisper  of  black 
brooding  and  weakness.  "All  we  can  do  is  wait.  How 
many  of  us  are  there  in  it?  Four  left,  and  you.  Two, 
three,  four.  Then,  the  one  that's  left  of  us.  Then,  you. 
But  how  about  us?  Is  it  going  to  be  me  next,  then 
Chadwell,  then  Paxton,  then  Carstairs;  or  Chadwell 

first,  or  Carstairs,  or  Brett  Paxton,  then "  He  sent 

his  arms  out,  and  lay  back  in  his  chair.  "That's  what 
I  mean,"  he  said.  "In  comparison!" 


110  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

And  the  big  man  heard  himself  saying,  "I  beg  your 
pardon,  Bradbroke.  I  hadn't  thought  of  that" 

He  had  not  thought  of  it.  This  side  of  the  misfortune, 
which  had  wrecked  their  lives,  had  not  occurred  to  him. 
It  had  been  so  personal,  had  so  suddenly  and  wholly 
incapacitated  him  from  even  attempting  the  thing  he 
had  set  his  heart  on,  that,  in  the  daze  of  his  own  misery, 
he  had  not  once  considered  the  more  immediate  fate  of 
the  other  men.  The  thing  had  seemed  his  alone,  a  cursed 
monopoly.  But  he  knew  now;  and,  knowing,  saw  that 
Bradbroke's  portrayal  of  their  position  had  been  not 
more  terrible  than  accurate;  and  he  tried  to  think  of  the 
sensations  of  Bradbroke  and  the  other  three,  Chadwell, 
and  Paxton,  and  Carstairs. 

Yes,  "in  comparison,"  he  was  "all  right,"  for,  as  Greg 
had  said,  they  must  go  before  he  did.  Must?  The  word 
had  come  automatically;  but  he  did  not  retract  it  or 
qualify  it.  He  could  not.  No  one  could,  who  had 
heard  that  grim  prophecy;  and  even  the  sheerest  skeptic 
must  have  been  converted  to  faith  by  Eraser's  death. 
Must?  Yes,  that  was  it:  they  must  go  before  he  did. 
For  him  —  well,  on  the  face  of  it,  he  could  still  call  him 
self  "a  good  risk,"  though  he  felt  his  flesh  creep  at  the 
expression,  for  the  "risk,"  however  good,  was  only  an 
absolute,  though  uncertainly  delayed  certainty. 

He  tried  to  rouse  himself,  to  tell  himself  that  his  state 
was  not  so  alarming;  the  four  would  go  first.  But  Brad- 
broke  By  Heaven !  the  thing  seemed  on  him  even 

now:  he  was  only  a  boy,  with  a  boy's  eyes,  the  wist 
ful  eyes  of  one  who  looked  into  the  world  with  a  hope 
half-hoped  for,  instead  of  a  steady  confidence.  The 


MORNING  111 

big  man  knew  the  type  well.  He  had  thought  they  were 
pretty  much  their  own  fault.  He  had  thanked  heaven  tha  t 
personally  —  But  he  had  come  to  realize,  later,  that 
people  were  pretty  much  as  they  were  born,  or  marred, 
or  made. 

The  American  looked  at  Bradbroke  guardedly,  then  with 
frank  pity.  For  the  boy  was  sitting  just  as  Ormsby 
had  placed  him,  in  the  chair.  He  was  facing  the  wide- 
thrown  window,  looking  out  on The  big  man  won 
dered  what  Bradbroke  saw.  Not  the  Netherbys'  roof,  he 
hoped,  though  he  feared  it.  Yet,  better  that  than  the 
stark,  half-nude  figure  of  the  barbaric  prophet  of  only 
ill;  and  even  that,  better  than  the  body  of  Fraser,  settled 
low,  white,  inert,  and  drooping,  across  Hammerstone's 
sustaining  arms. 

"Bradbroke,  old  man,"  he  said.  "Greg!"  As  if 
Greg  had  been  a  younger  brother,  the  big  man  steadied 
him  with  his  arm. 

The  other  shivered.  "Don't,"  he  begged.  "Don't 
look  at  me  like  that.  Am  I  so Instead  of  finish 
ing,  he  got  to  his  feet,  and  turned  his  slender  back  to 
the  window.  "I  tell  you,  we've  got  to  do  something. 
I  mean  Hammerstone's  been  at  me.  I  remember  what  he 
said  we'd  say  of  him,  but  Carstairs  is  right:  the  man's 
a  perfect  swine.  They  get  that  way,  I  suppose  —  doctors ! 
He  came  in,  just  as  I  was  leaving  to  come  here.  Says 
it  will  be  this  afternoon  at  three.  In  the  hospital  plot. 
He  says  we  can  come,  you  and  Chadwell  and  Paxton  and 
Carstairs  and  I  —  as  if  we  just  wanted  to  look  about  the 
hospital.  He's  going  to  show  some  of  what  he  calls  his 
'pet'  cases.  Horrible,  isn't  it!  They  get  that  way!" 


112  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

He  nodded  sagely  as  if  what  he  knew  about  doctors 
enabled  him  to  read  them  like  an  open  book.  "Where 
was  I?  Saying  we're  to  go  through  the  hospital. 
Hammerstone's  to  be  surprised  to  see  us  come  in:  it's 
to  be: 

"  'My  word,  this  is  the  last  thing!  You  chaps  here?* 
Good-fellowship,  you  know.  Then,  he'll  say : 

*  'Nothing  much  on,  this  afternoon!  No  operation 
that  amounts  to  anything.  Putting  a  chap  underground 
though.  Care  to  see  how  it's  done  here?'  '  He  stopped 
short.  "Horrible,  isn't  it?  Worst  kind!  Couldn't  have 
believed  it!"  He  stopped  again,  shaking  his  head, 
drearily.  "I've  seen  the  others,  and  they're  promised. 
We  all  ought  to  go.  No  more  than  right.  I  say,  you'll 
meet  us  there  at  three?" 

"Of  course,"  said  the  big  man.  "Meet  you  there  at 
three." 

He  knew  that  he  should  not  go,  that  he  had  not  the  least 
intention  of  going.  By  a  miracle  of  will,  he  had  heard 
Bradbroke  out,  and  deceived  him  into  gratitude  for  the 
promise.  But  he  knew  that  he  should  not  go,  that 
Bradbroke  himself  would  not  go,  or  Chadwell,  or  Paxton, 
or  Carstairs.  He  knew  that  they,  like  himself,  would 
hide  themselves  the  deepest  they  could  at  three;  that 
not  that  afternoon,  or  ever,  live  as  long  as  they  might 
in  South  Africa,  would  they  go,  or  allow  themselves, 
consciously,  to  be  carried,  to  that  hospital ! 

Greg  was  speaking  again.  "Some  one  had  to  tell  you. 
I  mean  one  of  us.  I  didn't  want  to  be  the  one.  Tried 
to  make  Chadwell:  he's  always  —  but  he  said  this  was 
different:  said  I  was  the  best.  Said  I'd  gotten  you  into 


MORNING  113 

this  and  played  skittles  with  your  life,  by  bringing  you 
down  here  from  Kimberley." 

"Greg!"  Just  the  one  word.  But  to  the  big  man,  at 
least,  it  answered  Chadwell.  Then,  the  American's 
strong  hands  went  to  the  slender  shoulders.  "You  said 
I  was  all  right,  Greg,  in  comparison,  and  I  understand 
what  you  mean,  now.  But  I'm  going  to  ask  a  difficult 
thing  of  you:  I'm  going  to  ask  you  to  believe  that  you 
yourself  won't  go  until  after  the  others  —  that  you'll 
be  next  to  me.  It's  best,  really.  And,  after  all,  though 
this  has  knocked  us  all  down,  we  won't  stay  down.  We'll 
just  suppose  that,  whoever's  the  next,  will  have  good, 
long  years  before  he  goes.  I  say  it's  the  best  way  to 
think  of  it,  Greg.  It's  the  only  way.  And  all  this  as 
suming  that  Fraser  wouldn't  have  died  last  night  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  that  fiend's  prophecy." 

Greg  looked  the  American  over  with  perfectly  open 
curiosity.  "You  mean  you've  forgotten  what  Hackluytt 
said,  and  can  think  Jem  would  have  died  there,  then, 
anyway?  "  He  drew  back  from  the  big  man  as  one  might 
from  proximity  to  a  powerful  animal  whose  malady 
might  at  any  moment  become  dangerous.  "I  say,  do 
you  mean  that?  No  rot,  mind,"  he  warned. 

The  big  man  met  his  eyes  miserably.  "Greg,  I'm 
making  the  best  I  can  of  it.  God  knows,  I  remember  how 
Hackluytt  warned  us.  But,  equally,  I  know  that  even 
a  man  as  sound-looking  as  Fraser  may  drop  any  minute. 
For  anything  beyond  that,  I  go  by  Hammerstone." 
He  told  himself  that  Greg  must  be  gotten  out  of  his 
present  mental  state  in  some  way,  and  truth  had  failed. 
"So,  I  say,  make  the  best  of  it.  We've  all  got  to.  And 


114  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

I  say  again  we're  alive  still,  and  probably  will  live  a  stack 
of  years  yet.  I  admit  I'd  feel  differently,  if  Carstairs 
came  in,  now,  and  told  us  that  Paxton  or  Chadwell  had 

gone;  but  so  far "  He  saw  that  Greg  had  forgotten 

him.  "You're  going  to  tell  her?  You'll  feel  you  must.'" 

It  jerked  Bradbroke  'round,  like  a  hand  on  his  collar. 

"  Tell  her! "  he  cried  out.     "  Tell  her?  " 

"I  should  think,"  the  big  man  began.  "Her 
right " 

Greg  turned  away  blindly: 

"You  don't  know  what  she's  been  through  already. 
She  musn't  have  this,  too.  No,  she  mustn't  have  this, 
too!"  His  lips  broke.  He  made  a  groping  gesture  with 
his  hands,  and  walked,  without  a  word,  from  the  room. 

And  the  man  he  had  left  looked  after  him,  seeing  as 
little.  Mechanically,  he  had  taken  his  watch  from  his 
pocket;  and,  as  he  held  it  without  looking  toward  it,  he 
remembered  that  he  was  due,  at  five,  that  afternoon,  at 
a  garden  party.  Lady  Barn's  invitation:  a  big  man, 
a  friend  of  her  husband,  was  up  from  the  Cape.  There 
would  be  people.  He  slipped  his  watch  back.  Five 
o'clock.  There  would  be  a  great  many  people.  Strangers. 
He  should  meet  many  of  them  and  have  to  talk  with 
them.  Five  o'clock.  It  was  not  yet  ten.  He  had  seven 
hours  in  which  to  fight  to  get  his  poise  back.  When  had 
he  begun  to  realize  that  he  had  a  "poise"?  But  seven 
hours!  Seven  centuries!  Could  he  hide  from  any  one  of 
them,  even  the  dullest,  what  an  effort  of  will  it  had  been 
for  him  to  come? 


CHAPTER  XI 
THE  FRUIT  OF  SEVEN  HOURS 

HE  WENT.  He  had  told  himself  —  and  at  last 
come  to  believe — that  it  was  best  that  he  should 
go.  The  decision  had  not  come  all  at  once:  at 
eleven,  after  an  hour's  analysis,  the  feat  seemed  to  him 
more  than  ever  impossible.  At  twelve,  he  felt  that  his 
brain  must  have  tilted,  if  he  had  even  once  seriously  con 
sidered  going.  One  o'clock.  He  had  eaten,  and,  since 
then,  smoked  continuously,  beginning  to  feel  something 
half  resembling  self-confidence.  But  he  had  remembered 
three  then;  and,  though  three  was  two  hours  away  yet, 
he  had  been  able  to  see  Hammerstone,  the  man  of  neither 
blood  nor  nerves,  and  the  body,  which  lay  each  instant 
more  clear  and  dead  before  their  eyes.  He  could  hear  Ham 
merstone  say,  providing  the  others  did  go  to  the  hospital : 

"My  word!  You  chaps  here?"  And  their  scheduled 
answer: 

"Nothing  else  to  do."  Then  the  rest  of  the  rigmarole. 
Gad,  his  brain  had  turned!  Two:  Three.  He  lay  in  his 
rooms.  Four.  Somehow,  he  had  stood  the  hours  out. 
Then,  perhaps  to  escape  visualizing  Hammerstone's  un 
feeling  faithfulness  to  his  promise  —  by  heaven!  he  had 
seen  Hammerstone  doing  it  with  his  very  hands! — he 
had  girded  himself,  and  gone  firmly  down  to  the  street  at 
five. 

115 


116  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

He  said  to  himself,  as  he  entered  Lady  Barn's  garden: 
"I  shall  see  no  one  I  shall  have  to  say  ten  words  to.  I'll 
be  passed  along  from  one  to  another  of  a  crowd  I'll  never 
see  again,"  and  was  immediately  captured  by  Lady  Bam, 
and  presented  to  her  cousin,  Lady  Haseltine-Clegge,  who, 
with  her  husband,  had  accompanied  the  Duke  and  the 
Duchess  from  the  Cape. 

The  American,  who  had  nerved  himself  to  endure  con 
versation,  found  it  a  relief.  Yes,  it  was  distinctly  a 
relief  to  talk  with  Haseltine-Clegge.  It  was  distinctly 
a  relief  to  talk  with  any  man  who  could  not  possibly 
suspect,  and  therefore  could  not  possibly  suggest,  what 
the  big  man  was  fighting  to  absent  from  his  mind.  From 
time  to  time,  Haseltine-Clegge  brought  other  men  up  — 
men,  for  the  most  part  called  to  Durban  from  Jo'burg, 
Maritzburg,  and  Pretoria,  by  the  presence  of  the  Duke; 
and  a  good  half  dozen  from  Kimberley,  who  had 
watched  the  American's  stupendous  gains  there,  and 
were  glad  to  meet  the  man  himself.  He  met  their  wives 
and  daughters.  He  was  beseiged  with  invitations.  Not 
yet  realizing  that  the  trivialities  of  life,  the  external, 
commonplace  things  always  come  in  mercifully  to  dull 
the  edge  of  tragedy,  he  marvelled  at  the  power  of  these 
Africanders  so  to  steady  him  by  their  banalities.  In 
anticipation,  he  had  held  meeting  these  strangers  an  ordeal, 
but,  when  at  last  he  took  leave  of  Haseltine-Clegge  and 
the  rest,  he  confessed  lasting  gratitude;  and  he  even 
smiled  as  he  worked  his  way  toward  the  gate. 

Yes,  he  was  glad  he  had  come.  How  happy  and  un 
conscious  all  these  people  were  —  the  crowd  coming  and 
going!  Nearby  was  a  pavilion,  tented  for  dancing.  He 


THE  FRUIT  OF  SEVEN  HOURS       117 

could  hear  the  orchestra  —  drum  mostly;  and,  looking 
over  the  shoulder-high  railing,  could  see  the  dancers 
apparently  merely  bouncing  up  and  down.  From  time 
to  time  a  young  fellow  would  come  out  saying,  to  this 
one  and  that,  that  he  was  looking  for  his  sister:  he  had  just 
left  her  "here,"  he  said,  each  time;  "just  here."  He  would 
look  about  nervously.  And  each  time,  some  one  of  the 
boys  he  appealed  to  would  ask: 

"What  colour  was  she?  I'll  help  you,  old  chap.  What 
did  she  have  on  her  head?" 

They  were  coming  and  going  all  around,  now,  for  the 
afternoon  was  fading.  Some  of  them  nodded  frankly 
to  him,  setting  him  wondering  where  they  thought  they 
had  seen  him  before.  He  knew  none  of  them;  but  the 
large  proportion  were  English,  their  faces  familiar  in  all  but 
identity.  And  he  smiled,  and  nodded  back  to  them. 
His  poise  was  coming  back,  his  youth.  He  lived  again. 
He  was  young  still;  still  not  yet  thirty.  Not  even  the  pres 
ence  of  Chadwell  and  Paxton  and  Carstairs,  though  he 
discovered  them  quite  unexpectedly,  tilted  his  regained 
equilibrium.  He  was  sorry  for  them,  but  not  one  with 
them.  They  were  Exiles,  as  Catherine  Hetheridge  had 
said.  He  moved  toward  them,  was  about  to  speak  to 
them,  when  he  came  suddenly  upon  Catherine  her 
self. 

He  wished  that  he  might  have  avoided  her,  but  won 
dered  how  she  would  be,  this  time:  in  the  spirit  in  which 
he  had  last  seen  her,  or  wearing  her  earlier  manner  —  her 
strange,  oddly  absent  bravado? 

She  was  neither.  "Glad  to  find  you,"  she  said,  holding 
out  her  hand,  which  caught  his  with  the  grasp  almost  of  a 


118  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

man.  "  I  didn't  know  whether  you'd  remembered,  or  for 
gotten  and  gone  back  to  Kimberley." 

He  waited.  If  she  were  acting,  her  achievement  was 
magnificent.  On  the  other  hand,  holding  such  multifold 
contradictions,  she  might  for  the  moment  mean  to  be 
genuine.  He  was  quite  at  a  loss.  Only  the  fact  that  her 
eyes  rested  on  him,  recalled  their  talk  at  her  gate;  yet, 
even  in  this,  an  observer  would  have  read  no  concession 
or  recognition,  by  her,  of  any  attribute;  for  her  manner, 
despite  the  frank  hand-clasp,  was  impersonal  —  such  as 
she  might  have  accorded  a  tolerated,  married,  middle- 
aged,  male  relative. 

She  puzzled  him.  Perhaps,  she  saw  this,  and  was 
pleased  to  preserve  it,  for  she  spoke  again,  before  he  could: 
"I  said  I  thought  you  might  have  gone  back."  Then  she 
changed,  "I  mean  I  hoped  you  had.  No,"  as  he  looked 
down  at  her,  "  don't  think  I'm  going  back  to  that.  Only, 
I  want  you  to  know  that  I  remember,  shall  always 
remember.  And  —  well,  it's  just  as  I  said :  you  can't 
do  it.  You're  the  most  direct  and  —  and  best-equipped 
man  I've  ever  known,  but  not  even  you  can  do  it.  They've 
got  to  go  on  as  they  are,  and  I " 

He  held  up  a  warning  hand. 

She  inclined  her  head,  and  said  in  a  perfectly  matter-of- 
fact  tone:  "I  won't,  then.  But  it's  all  mapped  out 
and  laid  down  for  us.  It's  the  beds  our  fathers'  ill  luck  or 
ours  have  made  for  us,  that  and  —  South  Africa!"  She 
turned  half  from  him  as  calmly  as  Haseltine-Clegge  had 
done  a  quarter  of  an  hour  earlier.  "What  a  world  it  is! 
What  liars  we  all  are !  See  that  tall,  absolutely  dressed 
woman?  No,  that  doesn't  identify  her  to  you.  That. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  SEVEN  HOURS       119 

woman  in  gray,  with  the  profile?  That  —  oh,  can't  you 
see  her!  Well,  the  fifth  woman  toward  me  from  the  table 
with  the  gray  sunshade?  Now,  you  see  her,  and  I  can  go 
on:  I  interested  that  woman.  She's  the  Countess  of 
Carrick.  It's  away  up  somewhere  in  Scotland.  She's 
asked  me  to  stop  there,  this  winter,  when  I  go  back.  She 
thinks  I'm  going.  She  believed  me.  I  said  what  liars 
we  all  are,  and  I'm  merely  defining !  Witness  what  I  told 
my  Countess  about  this  winter  and  home.  Even  gave 
her  the  month!  Why  not,"  she  demanded,  though  with 
out  looking  up  at  him,  "when  everything  about  me  is 
untruth  —  face,  figure,  manner,  clothes  even?  My  gown 
impressed  my  Countess.  Right,  too,  for  (I'm  going  to 
tell  you,  for  I  want  you  to  know,  and  you  wouldn't, 
otherwise)  this  coat  is  Irish  lace,  mind,  over  a  gown  of 
French  handwork.  The  hat's  not  much,  maybe:  only 
cream  straw,  pink  roses  and  green  leaves;  but  the  green 
matches  what  holds  the  coat  across,  here,"  she  raised  her 
hands  to  her  breast;  "and  it's  a  good  green:  as  every 
woman  knows,  it  brings  out  the  gold  in  your  hair  and  the 
pink  in  your  face,  if  you've  got  'em,  and  I  have.  Just 
as  these  pearls,"  her  hands  went  to  her  round  throat, 
"show  off  my  skin." 

Not  once  had  she  looked  at  him. 

"They're  the  last  of  my  relics.  My  grandfather's.  I'll 
tell  you  about  him :  he  lived  the  life  of  a  recluse  at  Hyde 
Park  Gardens.  By  parsimony  and  safe  investment  he 
ran  up  the  £100,000  his  father  had  left  him  to  three  quar 
ters  of  a  million.  He  quarrelled  with  every  one !  He  shut 
himself  up  in  his  house  and  saw  none  of  his  relatives  for 
fifty  years !  We  ransacked  his  house  at  his  death  for  his 


120  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

will;  but  none  was  found.  Every  book  in  the  place 
was  separately  examined,  but  to  no  purpose.  In  fact, 
we  never  found  that  will.  In  the  end,  the  fortune  was 
divided  among  all  of  us.  Then,  there  was  much  litigation. 
My  father's  solicitors  named  their  sons  after  him  t  . 
and  retired  and  opened  town  houses,  when  the  courts 
finally  heard  the  last  of  it.  I've  told  you  the  rest:  my 
father  died,  and  we  came  to  South  Africa.  Strikes  you 
as  beside  the  point,  maybe;  but  I'm  telling  you  where  my 
pearls  come  from.  Are  you  clever  enough  to  see  I'm 
putting  my  best  foot  foremost  in  telling  it?  Try  to  make 
it  out,  and,  if  you  can't,  take  my  word  for  it!  They're 
mine,  and  they  came  to  me  from  my  grandfather,  though 
you  know  I'm  trying  to  make  a  Mrs.  'Turvydrop'  out  of 
Madame  Zelig  at  £30  a  month  and  nothing  'found'! 
Come  over  and  give  me  some  tea  —  I  mean  let  me  give 
you  some,  some  time.  I'm  'in'  always.  How  we've 
rambled!  If  these  people  heard  us!  Do  you  ever  think 
how  one  would  electrify  people  if  he  spoke  his  thoughts? 
Probably  not.  You're  an  exception,  and  your  closet 
is  empty;  but  the  rest  of  us " 

Again,  and  still  without  glancing  at  him,  she  sent  her 
slender  hands  out.  Her  throat  swelled,  lifting  the  rope 
of  pearls.  "If,  now,  I  should  shout  what  I'm  thinking, 
my  Countess  I  liked  so " 

She  raised  her  head,  for  one  instant  letting  him  meet 
the  eyes  which  were  the  colour  of  the  blue  soil  about  Kim- 
berley.  "You've  set  me  confessing  again.  You'll  al 
ways  have  people  doing  that.  I'm  not  complimenting 
you.  I'm  stating  your  function.  I  suppose  part  of  it's 
your  not  talking,  and "  She  cut  the  words  off. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  SEVEN  HOURS       121 

There  was  nothing  diamondiferous  about  her  strange  eyes 
now.  She  turned  from  him,  then  back  to  him.  "  In  ten 
years,  five,  how  much  of  this  shall  we  remember?  Little, 
I  hope;  and  pray,  not  one  thing.  Don't  look  about  so 
industriously,  for  she's  not  here.  She's  reading  aloud 
to  Anne  Netherby.  Isn't  she,  Hugh?" 

Turning  with  her,  the  big  man  saw  that  Chadwell  had 
come  up  and  was  watching,  moodily. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "That  is,  I've  not  seen  her.  I'll  ask 
Paxton  and  Carstairs,  if  you  like?  " 

She  allowed  him  to  believe  that  the  interest  had  been 
hers.  "Thanks,  no.  It's  no  matter.  I'll  run  over, 
directly." 

It   was   almost    a    dismissal,   but    Chadwell    stayed. 

"There's  something "     He  hesitated,  then  swung  to 

the  big  man.     "  Seen  the  News?  " 

As  he  spoke,  he  passed  the  folded  newspaper  to  Cath 
erine. 

"It's  about  Jem,"  he  explained,  slowly.  "It  says 
he's  —  gone." 

"Gone?     You  mean " 

With  a  control  at  which  the  American  marvelled,  Chad- 
well  reassured  her.  "Not  that,  or  I'd  have  prepared  you. 
Just  bolted  the  country.  Says  he  was  seen,  this  morning, 
about  noon,  boarding  the  N.  G.  R.  at  Ladysmith.  Must 
have  ridden  all  night  to  do  it.  We  saw  him,  you  remem 
ber,  Ormsby,  at  the  club,  last  night.  Seemed  all  fine  then." 

The  American  nodded.  He  was  grateful  that  the  girl's 
eyes  were  on  the  paper,  which  shook  in  her  fingers. 
"Can't  something  be  done?  I  should  think  he  could  be 
—  traced." 


THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

"Not  much  hope  in  that,  I'm  afraid,"  Chadwell  dis 
couraged.  "Not  out  here!" 

"But "  Catherine  began.  Then,  "Poor  little  Jem! 

Poor,  little  Jem !  I  wonder  what 

Chadwell  nodded  slowly.  "I've  just  seen  Paxton  and 
Carstairs.  We're  looking  for  Bradbroke.  Have  either 
of  you  seen  him?  He  ought  to  know." 

Looking  here  and  there,  Chadwell  turned  away  from 
them.  But,  after  a  step  or  two,  he  came  back.  "I 
say,"  he  began,  "we'd  best  be  as  light  as  we  can  in  judging 
him."  It  was  very  well  done,  for  he  looked  at  the  Ameri 
can.  "He's  probably  left  a  fair  bit  in  the  way  of  debts 
behind.  .  .  .  Probably,  that  was  it.  Then,  too," 
he  was  still  addressing  the  big  man,  "he'd  had  the  worst 

sort  of  a  facer  from  home.  A  girl.  So  you  won't " 

The  man  was  wonderful:  the  absolute  embodiment  of  one 
loyally  shielding  the  reputation  of  a  friend." 

Indeed,  Chadwell's  characterization  was  so  shade- 
perfect  that  the  American  found  his  role  ready  and  wait 
ing,  when  played  up  to  in  so  rare  a  way.  He  said: 

"No  need,  Chadwell.  There's  no  need  in  the  world! 
Then,  too,  you  remember  I  knew  him  myself,  a  little,  and 
that  counts  with  a  man  like  him." 

"Beg  your  pardon,"  Chadwell  said  gravely,  "only  all 
of  us  had  known  him  so  well,  and  you  know  a  chap " 

"I  know." 

Paxton  and  Carstairs  came  up.  "Seen  Greg?"  the 
singer  asked,  in  little  more  than  a  whisper. 

While  he  answered  in  the  negative,  the  big  man  studied 
them:  they  had  themselves  not  quite  so  well  in  hand  as 
Chadwell  had;  just,  even  then,  they  were  admirable. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  SEVEN  HOURS       123 

"Horrible!"  Paxton  went  on.  "I  can't  simply  bring 

myself  to  believe  he's Come  along,  Carstairs : 

Greg's  probably  at  the  Netherbys'." 

"I'll  go  with  you,"  said  Chadwell. 

The  girl  looked  after  them,  then  sighed.  "I  think  I'll 
go  home,  Mr.  Ormsby,"  she  said,  in  the  odd,  detached 
way  which  he  knew  he  should  always  associate  with  her. 
"And  I'll  take  this."  She  indicated  the  green  pages  of 
the  cheaply  gotten  out  newspaper.  "Poor  little  Jem, 
I  wonder"  —  she  stopped,  then  went  on,  "I  wonder  what 
he  —  I  hope  he  finds  what  he  went  for,"  she  said.  "He'd 
never  have  found  it  here!  " 

Then,  she  turned  absently  from  him,  hesitated,  half- 
turned  back,  then  walked  away  slowly,  leaving  the  big 
man  standing  silent  and  alone. 


CHAPTER  XII 
THE  WISDOM  OF  HAMMERSTONE 

A)NE !     And  yet,  as  he  walked  to  his  rooms,  after 
leaving  Lady  Bam  and  the  others,  he  felt  mar 
vellously  less  lonely  than  he  had  nine  hours,  or 
even  three,  before.     Moreover,  now  that  the  News  had 
spun  its   "explanation"  of  Eraser's  exit,  the  big  man's 
position  oppressed  him  decreasingly. 

He  was  able  to  look  ahead,  now;  able,  too,  to  look 
back  even  to  three  o'clock,  to  Hammerstone,  and  the 
hospital  plot,  the  last  resting-place  of  the  "unclaimed." 
Indeed,  looking  thither  from  his  present  security,  he 
was  amazed  that,  among  so  many  hysterical  men 
• — himself,  Bradbroke,  Chadwell,  the  singer,  and  Car- 
stairs  —  even  a  doctor  could  have  preserved  his  sanity. 
Sanity?  Yes,  by  Jove!  Hammerstone  had  been  the  only 
sane  one!  He  himself,  who  had  always  prided  himself 
so  on  his  nervelessness,  had  gone  off,  like  a  girl,  because  a 
crazed  nigger  fakir  had  mumbled,  and  a  boy,  whose  heart 
was  probably  bad  anyway,  had  died.  Of  course,  the 
witch-doctor  had  been  a  hard-looking  ticket.  Never 
before  had  been  such  a  Death's  head  on  such  a  Devil's 
body!  To  imagine  the  Pit  preceptored  by  similar  fiends 
was  enough  to  turn  any  man's  thoughts  toward  rectitude ! 
And  Eraser's  dying  had  been  staggering.  Let  the  thing 
have  happened  in  any  club  even  in  New  York  or  in  Boston, 

124 


WISDOM  OF  HAMMERSTONE         125 

in  broad  daylight,  with  the  prophet  a  white  man,  and  it 
would  have  been  staggering!  But  Hammerstone  had 
been  right:  it  was  only  a  coincidence!  Of  course,  he 
couldn't  tell  Her  anything  about  it,  but  it  would  be  good 
to  see  her.  ...  In  another  moment,  he  was  on  his 
way  to  the  Netherbys'. 

He  reached  the  house,  even  before  he  was  aware  that 
he  had  begun  to  climb  the  drive,  and  his  heart  leaped,  as 
he  thought  of  what  it  meant  to  him.  By  heaven!  how 
much  he  had  forgotten,  through  the  dark  hours  from  which 
he  had  come!  Well,  he'd  make  up  for  lost  time,  now! 
There'd  be  tennis  and  cricket  and  hunting  and  the  races. 
Gad!  he'd  forgotten  race- week,  too.  It  was  waiting! 

So  was  a  slender,  girlish  figure,  distinct  in  the  half-light 
on  the  top  step  toward  which  he  was  rising.  And,  in  his 
joy  at  her,  the  big  man  hardly  heard  Greg's: 

"  There  you  are,  Ormsby !  Just  going  to  send  for  you ! " 
And  Anne's,  "Really,  we  were,  Mr.  Ormsby.  We've 
been  talking  of  that  terrible  story  in  the  News  of  Jem. 
Hugh  says  he  showed  it  to  you  and  Catherine.  Or  did 
you  tell  us,  Catherine?" 

Without  waiting  for  Miss  Hetheridge,  whom  the  big 
man  now  saw  for  the  first  time,  Anne  raced  on:  "Isn't 
it  the  most  horrible  thing  you  ever  heard  of?  Greg's  told 
me  everything.  Do  you  think  there  can  be  any  truth  in 
it?" 

They  had  crowded  up  around  the  American.  But 
Greg  interfered. 

"Oh,  I  say,  Anne,  and  the  rest  of  you,  don't  drive  him 
off  this  way !  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  knows  less  about  it 
than  any  of  us  do,  for  he's  not  seen  Fraser  above  half  a 


126  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

dozen  times.     If  you  want  any  details,  ask  me,  and  I'll 
go  over  all  I've  said  again." 

There  were  corroborating  "That's  so's "  from  the 
men;  and  the  big  man  went  to  Lady  Netherby  for  a 
moment,  then  almost  at  once,  had  regained  his  place  at 
the  side  of  the  English  violet,  and  even  led  her  a  little 
way  from  the  rest. 

He  had  planned  to  talk  at  first  of  Eraser,  though  only 
for  her  relieving;  and  he  was  grateful  that  the  subject 
had  been  so  thoroughly  reviewed,  and  so  adroitly,  by 
Greg  and  Paxton  and  Chadwell  and  Carstairs. 

It  was  a  welcome  change  of  thought  to  turn  to  what  he 
planned  for  Greg,  to  affirm,  again,  to  her,  that  the  specula 
tions  into  which  he  should  be  led  could  not  go  awry,  to 
remind  her,  again,  all  that  it  would  bring  to  Greg  and  to 
Anne  —  marriage  and  England.  He  laughed. 

"The  hardest  part's  going  to  be  our  having  to  go  so 
slowly  until  we've  actually  gotten  him  speculating." 

She  smiled,  and  nodded.  "But  then!"  Her  hands 
came  together.  "I  can  hardly  wait  for  it!" 

He  thrilled  at  her  tribute  —  her  unquestioning  faith 
in  him.  "I  think  it's  very  fine  and  wonderful  of  you." 
she  said,  shyly,  in  his  hesitation.  "I'm  very  glad  that 
you  felt  willing  to  tell  me;  and  I'll  be  very  careful  not  to 
let  Anne  suspect." 

"Suspect  what,"  Anne  demanded,  accusingly.  With 
Greg,  she  had  come  up  behind. 

"Something  that's  very  nice  but  mustn't  even  be 
guessed  at,"  the  girl  laughed  back. 

Greg's  eyes,  which  had  been  studying  the  big  man, 
brightened. 


WISDOM  OF  HAMMERSTONE         127 

"Then,"  he  said,  "we  mustn't  even  attempt  to  attempt 
to  guess." 

Carstairs  joined  them  then.  The  tete-a-tete  was  over. 
Still,  though  the  big  man  had  hardly  an  uninter 
rupted  moment  with  her,  during  what  remained  of  the 
evening,  he  was  smiling  happily  when  he  went,  at  last,  to 
his  rooms. 

"For  the  world's  going  on  again,  and  we're  in  it,"  he 
said  aloud.  He  ran  through  his  exercises  jubilantly,  and, 
in  the  same  room  in  which  he  had  sat,  with  his  face  in  his 
hands,  through  the  preceding  night,  he  now  went  quietly 
to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
THE  WORLD  WENT  ON  AGAIN 

THE  world  went  on,  and  they  with  it.  Each 
day,  the  air  seemed  brighter  to  him,  the  universe 
fairer.  The  world  went  on,  and  they  with  it.  A 
thousand  things  flowed  in,  little,  meaningless,  pleasant 
things,  which  filled  his  time  and  insured  his  thoughts. 
Tennis,  drives,  dinners.  Though  the  races  would  not 
be  on  for  a  long  week  yet,  some  of  the  best  of  the  visitors 
had  already  come  up  from  the  Cape  and  down  from  Piet- 
ermaritzburg,  and  still  others  from  Pretoria.  They 
were  getting  used  to  the  track,  getting  ready.  He  was 
much  at  the  Netherbys'.  Others  demanded  him.  He 
was  impressed,  American  though  he  was,  into  the 
English  service  —  for  the  club  theatricals. 

He  took  ah1  of  it  gladly.  At  times,  the  face  of  Fraser 
rose  pallid  before  him;  at  these  unsought  glimpses  back 
ward  the  big  man  pitied  the  boy  for  his  early  fate  as  he 
had  not  pitied  him,  or  any  of  the  rest,  in  life.  But, 
except  at  these  visitations,  decreasingly  recurrent,  he 
forgot  Eraser.  Indeed,  the  boy  was  recalled  less  and 
less  even  by  those  who  had  known  him  best,  and,  of  neces 
sity,  must  have  missed  him  most.  Of  all  these,  Catherine 
Hetheridge  was  the  least  callous  —  another  unguessed 
element  in  her  various  complexity  —  for  she  was  rarely 
alone  with  the  American  without  harking  back  to 

128 


THE  WORLD  WENT  ON  AGAIN      129 

what,  in  another,  might  have  seemed  a  personal  de- 
prival. 

"For  he  was  only  a  boy,"  she  would  say,  over  and  over. 
"And  he'd  been  out  here  so  short  a  time!"  She  spoke 
of  what  the  world  might  have  held  for  Fraser,  what  the 
world  should  have  given  him.  .  .  .  Catherine 
cherished  Jem's  every  attribute  and  capability  increas 
ingly.  To  the  big  man,  Catherine  seemed  almost  to 
have  loved  Fraser.  It  was  unlikely,  though.  Chadwell, 
perhaps.  Easily !  But  not  poor,  boyish  Jem.  Still,  what 
was  ascertainable  in  Catherine  Hetheridge;  what  im 
possible?  He  could  not  have  yielded  her  his  sympathy 
more  if  she  had  realized,  as  he  did,  the  permanency  of  her 
loss.  And  this  new  side  of  Catherine  raised  her  high  in 
his  regard.  As  he  pitied  Fraser,  he  pitied  the  girl  who 
mourned  him.  For  his  own  peace  of  mind,  the  big  man 
tried  to  forget  —  and  so  nourished  the  memory  —  of  what 
she  had  told  him  of  her  relations  with  Madame  Zelig  and 
the  son,  Beaconsfield. 

The  world  went  on.  He  saw  Greg  and  Chadwell  and 
the  singer  and  Carstairs  continuously.  By  now,  they  had 
come  into  the  closest  association.  All  sportsmen,  they 
had  that  strong  bond  in  common,  the  big  man  found. 
Then,  too,  he  was  a  great  reader,  which  caught  Chadwell. 
He  loved  music,  which  drew  Paxton.  Carstairs  generally 
beat  him  at  tennis,  but  had  to  work  to  his  top  to  do  it, 
which  made  the  victor  hold  the  game  of  the  vanquished, 
admirable.  And  he  liked  Greg  so  much  for  Her  sake  — 
she  loved  Anne  —  that  he  did  not  try  to  identify  the 
strange,  singularly  hard  streak,  which,  from  time  to  time, 
he  encountered  in  the  younger  man.  Sometimes,  he 


130  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

wondered  about  Bradbroke;  that  hard  streak  sometimes 
gave  the  big  man  anxiety.  But  Greg's  charm  of  manner, 
and  his  brilliancy,  and  the  rest,  made  him  discount  it. 

Unquestionably,  Greg  was  brilliant.  The  big  man 
watched  him  at  the  rehearsals  for  the  play,  and  marvelled 
at  his  mastery  of  the  art  which  had  been  denied  the  older 
man.  Yes,  on  that  little  stage,  as  on  the  larger,  the  stage 
of  their  lives,  Greg  led  his  fellows.  Chadwell  was  far 
more  intellectual;  Carstairs  far  more  of  a  force;  Paxton 
infinitely  more  of  an  artist.  But  it  was  Greg  who  led. 
A  professional,  imported  for  the  purpose  from  London, 
could  not  have  drilled  them,  women  and  men,  more  ably 
or  more  rigidly.  He  schooled  Anne  as  rigorously  as  he 
did  the  others.  Only  Catherine  Hetheridge  dared  openly 
to  rebel;  but  her  acerbities  failed  to  pierce  his  impassivity. 

"I  never  saw  two  people  fall  in  love  with  each  other  so 
fast  in  my  life.  Did  you?  "  Anne  laughed  to  her  fiance,  one 
late  afternoon,  as  the  big  man  and  Marian  went  together 
from  the  rehearsal. 

Greg  did  not  hear  her.  He  was  deep  in  rewriting  some  of 
Carstairs'  lines.  But,  an  hour  later,  when  Anne  returned 
to  the  subject,  he  started  back: 

"In  love?     He  mustn't  fall  in  love  with  her!" 

"Why,  Greg,  dear!  Why  not?  Dad  and  mother  feel 
just  as  I  do,  that  it's  eminently  suitable."  Then,  since 
his  eyes  were  still  clouded,  "Probably,  we're  borrowing 
trouble,  I  mean  you  are,  for  her  father  will  never  let  her 
marry  an  American." 

"Right,  too,"  he  said,  his  eyes  clearing.  "I  like  him 
no  end;  but  it  ought  to  be  an  Englishman,  for  you  can 
never  tell  just  what  they'll  think  is  all  right — Americans ! " 


THE  WORLD  WENT  ON  AGAIN      131 

She  kissed  him,  and  he  patted  her  hand.  "  See  what  you 
can  do,  and  I  will,  since  you  want  it.  He  can't  hurt  me, 
though  he  is  a  rather  terrifying  personality." 

He  laughed  with  her.  "Just  don't  do  anything  or  say 
anything  that  could  make  her  think  of  marrying  him! 
I  don't  ask  anything  more  than  that,"  he  said,  with 
almost  perfect  naturalness. 

"They've  got  a  secret  between  them,  and  it's  about 
us,"  she  remembered,  "and  this  shall  be  ours,  about 
them!  And,"  she  laughed  again,  "I'll  be  very  careful 
not  to  let  her  suspect.  You  remember  she  said  that? 
There,  on  the  porch,  the  evening  we  went  down  the  har 
bour  in  the  Duke's  yacht.  The  night  after  poor  Jem 
went." 

"Yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "I  know." 

Like  him,  she  had  turned  graver.  "What  a  cold 
blooded,  heartless  lot  we  are!  A  garden  party,  then  a 
dance  and  a  dinner  .  .  .  right  after  he'd  dropped 
out.  It's  as  if  we'd  forgotten  him  over  night." 

He  shook  his  head.  "Not  at  all:  leading  our  own 
lives  isn't  'forgetting'  him.  We'll  always  remember 
Jem!  But  I  can't  see  the  good  in  making  a  fuss  about 
him,  when  all  of  us  know  he  couldn't  have  been  worse 
off  than  he  was  here.  I  say,"  he  broke  off  suddenly, 
"remember  the  rehearsal  to-morrow  afternoon  at  five! 
ChadwelPs  in  Pretoria,  on  the  company's  business,  and 
won't  be  back  in  time,  so  I'll  have  to  take  both  parts; 
but  we'll  make  the  best  of  it." 

"Pretoria,"  repeated  the  girl,  glancing  at  the  rain- 
sluiced  windows.  "Imagine  Pretoria  on  such  a  day  as 
this!" 


132  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

"Don't  try  to.  He  wasn't  keen  on  going,  either. 
Washout,  somewhere  in  the  mines.  Remember:  five 
sharp,  and  see  the  others  come!' 

"Yes,  mister,"  she  mocked.  Then,  her  arms  went 
about  his  neck,  and  she  was  whispering  almost  fiercely: 
"Greg,  Greg,  think  how  it  will  be  when  we're  through 
with  all  this,  when  you've  managed  the  money,  and 
we're  married.  Home!"  She  looked  up  into  his  face 
tensely.  "Do  you  ever  try  to  imagine  it?" 

"  Yea,"  he  said  uncertainly;  then,  with  sudden  defiance, 
"Yes,  God  knows!" 

She  caught  the  strange  look,  which  had  leaped  into 
his  eyes. 

"Greg!  "she  cried.     "Greg!" 

"Don't,"  he  half -pleaded.  "  I'm  doing  all  I  can.  I've 
done- 

"You  don't  mean  —  already?"  She  was  so  lost 
in  her  own  emotion  that  she  failed  to  read  his  own. 
"Tell  me!  Don't  you  see,  I  can't  wait? " 

"It's  .  .  .  coming!"  Suddenly,  the  fear  she  had 
been  too  blinded  to  see  in  his  eyes,  left  them;  he  laughed 
wildly  down  into  her  awestruck  face.  "Don't  worry," 
he  flung  out.  "It's  all  right!"  Then  he  kissed  her, 
held  her  a  moment  hard  to  him,  then  was  off  down  the 
drive. 

But  his  mood  changed  instantly:  he  turned,  in  his 
rickshaw,  and  waved  his  hand  to  her  boyishly;  then, 
having  seen  her,  for  one  swift  second,  between  the  trees, 
which  the  curving  drive  drew  together,  he  faced  ahead 
and  stared  silently  into  the  beginning  night,  made  almost 
phosphorescent  by  the  blazing  moon. 


"Macho!"  he  cried  to  the  Kaffir  boy,  who  toiled  be 
tween  the  shafts  of  the  rickshaw.  "Faster!"  he  cried 
again,  at  the  bending,  brown  shoulders.  He  was  tense, 
restless  rather  than  eager.  Anne  had  disturbed  him, 
her  own  tenseness  and  her  insistent  questioning;  and, 
God  knows,  he  had  enough  that  was  disturbing  as  it  was! 
If  only  he  could  have  know^n!  He'd  got  to  find  Paxton 

and   Chadwell  and   Carstairs   and He  leaned  far 

forward,  on  the  rickshaw  seat,  and  almost  instantly 
became  aware  of  a  big  body  in  white  drill,  standing,  as 
if  waiting  for  him,  at  the  gate. 

"Chadwell,"  he  said  to  himself,  forgetting,  for  the 
moment,  that  Chadwell  was  north  in  Pretoria.  He  looked 
again.  It  was  Ormsby,  the  American,  but  such  an 
Ormsby  as  he  had  never  seen.  The  big  man  stopped 
him  with  a  short,  hard  gesture,  laid  his  hand  on  the 
wheel,  and,  leaning  over,  whispered  dully: 

"ChadwelVs  gone." 

"What!"  Bradbroke  demanded.  "You  say  .  .  . 
speak  out,  in  God's  name!  my  'boy'  won't  understand!" 

But  the  American  shook  his  head,  his  hand  closing  cold 
as  steel  on  Greg's  shoulder. 

"Paxton  and  Carstairs  '11  tell  you.     Come!" 

"Where  are  they?"     Greg  began,  mechanically 0     "But 
it  can't     ...     I   tell  you  he  can't   have 
Where?" 

"My  rooms." 

"Get  in,"  said  Bradbroke  He  lurched  to  the  farther 
end  of  the  narrow  seat,  started  the  "boy"  with  a  single 
word,  a  groan  more  than  a  whisper;  then  sagged  against 
the  big  man's  shoulder,  and  closed  his  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


A  THEY  encountered  the  half-light  of  the  street 
lamps,  the  big  man  looked  closely  at  Greg; 
then,  realizing  that  he  might  do  this  with 
impunity,  studied  him  —  profile,  attitude,  carriage  of 
the  head  and  droop  of  the  slender  shoulders,  his  lamen 
table  lack  of  anything  approaching  ruggedness. 

The  rickshaw  came  to  rest.  "Here  we  are,"  said  the 
big  man.  "They're  up  there." 

Neither  spoke,  while  climbing  the  stairs.  At  their  top, 
the  American  stepped  back  so  that  the  younger  man 
should  enter  before  him,  followed  him  in,  and  closed  the 
door. 

Carstairs  and  the  singer  were  standing  just  where  he 
had  left  them,  when  he  had  gone  for  Greg.  He  knew 
that  he  should  do  most  of  the  talking,  having,  in  a 
strange,  unexpected  way,  taken  Chadwell's  place,  and 
he  began  at  once:  "Carstairs,  tell  Greg  where  and  how 
Chadwell  died." 

"You  know  where  he  went,  Greg,"  Carstairs  began 
slowly;  "it  was  three  days  ago.  I  was  at  the  club  with 
him,  when  he  got  his  note  of  instructions.  It  said  that 
seven  inches  of  rain  had  fallen  in  the  past  twenty-four 
hours  up  there,  and  the  Pretoria  and  the  Witwatersrand 
areas  were  fast  flooding.  The  May  Consolidated  dam 

134 


WHOM  CHAD  WELL  LEFT  BEHIND    135 

had  been  the  first  to  burst,  washing  away  the  embank 
ment  of  the  Glencairn  slimes  dam;  then,  the  Witwaters- 
rand,  lower  down  the  valley,  had  gone.  That  was  Hugh's 
company's,  and  they  had  got  word  of  it  soon  after  the 
slimes  dam  of  the  Simmer  and  Jack  Mine  had  gone. 
They'd  hunted  him  up  right  off  then,  and  located  him 
with  me,  at  the  Regent,  the  little  smoking-room  just 
off  the  main  one.  You  know,  of  course.  I " 

The  American  nodded,  his  big  voice  interrupting 
Carstairs'  first  lapse  into  irrelevancy.  "Yes,  Carstairs, 
we  know.  The  point  is,  Greg,  that  Chadwell  appears 
to  have  gone  up  there  as  fast  as  anything  could  carry  him. 
He  found  fifteen  feet  of  water  over  the  railroad;  houses 
collapsing,  and  a  lot  of  natives  —  one  hundred  and  thirty- 
nine,  it  was  known  later  —  imprisoned  in  the  Witwaters- 
rand.  He  went  down  after  them.  There  were  six  other 
white  men,  locked  in  by  that  water.  I  hope  I  should  have 
had  the  same  pluck,  if  I'd  been  there." 

That  was  all.  There  was  no  statement  by  Carstairs 
or  the  American  as  to  the  fate  which  had  waited  the  one 
hundred  and  forty-six  men  in  those  flooded,  subterranean, 
corridors  of  the  Witwatersrand.  And  Bradbroke  asked  for 
none. 

"How  —  I  mean,  when,  did  you  hear?"  he  asked  at 
last. 

The  big  man  looked  across  to  Carstairs.  But  Carstairs 
had  done.  The  musician,  meeting  the  American's  eyes, 
jerked  his  head  convulsively  —  a  gesture  ridiculous,  in 
such  a  man,  at  any  other  time;  but  now  eloquent  of 
anything!  The  American  turned  back  to  Bradbroke : 

"Reuter  telegram  to  the  News,    The  editor  knew  that 


136  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

Chadwell  had  lived  with  Carstairs,  and  got  it  right  across 
to  him.  Carstairs  got  me,  and  I  went  to  the  News  office 
at  once,  and  saw  the  editor  himself  and  the  telegram. 
While  I  was  there,  another  telegram  came  in;  but  it  was 
only  a  repetition  of  the  first  one  for  the  paper  to  transmit 
to  Chadwell's  company.  I  went  to  the  company  with  it, 
and  asked  for  any  details  they  could  give.  They  were 
very  good  about  it,  considering  they  had  only  my  word 
I'd  been  a  friend  of  Chadwell,  to  go  by.  They'd  already 
heard  over  their  private  wire.  You'd  all  have  liked  to 
hear  what  they  said  of  Chadwell.  Do  you  know,  he  was 
the  only  white  man  who'd  volunteer  to  go  down?  He 
knew  it  was  touch  and  go,  but  there  were  all  those  fellows 
trapped  down  there,  and  he  didn't  waste  any  time.  He'd 
been  down  the  Witwatersrand  a  good  many  times,  and 
thought  he  knew  a  way  out  for  them.  He  got  into  a 
bucket  and  told  them  to  lower  him.  The  last  thing  he 
did  was  to  scribble  a  note,  which  he  left  with  the  super 
intendent  at  the  surface.  That  note  is  to  us:  you,  Greg, 
you,  Carstairs  and  Paxton,  and  to  me.  It  says: 
"  '// 1  don't  come  up,  forgive  me,  and  good-bye.'' 
"That  was  last  night,"  the  big  man  went  on,  after  a 
moment.  "The  super  waited,  there  at  the  mouth,  with 
the  rest.  They  waited  all  night.  Waited  hours,  after 
that,  when  all  of  them  knew  it  was  over.  Then  the 
superintendent  wired  the  note  to  Chadwell's  company, 
and  the  local  manager  gave  the  wire  to  me." 

The  big  man's  voice  fell.  He  was  trying  to  picture 
Chadwell,  the  long,  moody,  lean  man,  writing  that  short 
note,  to  those  whom,  in  obedience  to  duty,  he  was,  per 
haps  in  the  next  minute,  forever  to  .leave  behind.,  Qbedi- 


ence?  Or  had  it  not  been  Fate,  which  had  dispatched 
him  in  the  long  reach  of  the  sagging  bucket,  down  into 
the  bowels  of  the  drowning  mine.  Yes,  Fate!  The 
big  man  affirmed  it,  just  as  he  knew  that  Chadwell  must 
have  affirmed  it,  as  he  stepped  into  the  bucket,  and  gave 
the  word  to  the  shivering  Kaffir  boy  to  lower.  With  a 
shrewdness  all  its  own,  Fate  had  made  Duty  its  scape 
goat,  and  sent  Hugh  Chadwell  down ! 

The  American  turned  back  to  the  others.  "I've  given 
it  to  you  just  as  his  firm  told  me.  Don't  think  I've  left 
anything  out.  I  haven't.  It  seems  old  to  me  already. 
I  don't  try  to  account  for  the  feeling,  but,  at  the  back  of  my 
head,  I  knew  it  was  coming!" 

Through  the  abruptly  dropped  silence,  he  studied  them 
gaugingly,  then  began  again:  "We  remember  well 
enough  what  Hammerstone  called  Fraser's  death." 

"Yes,"  Carstairs  interrupted,  "the  swine!  The  cold 
blooded,  calloused,  professional-hearted  — 

Again,  the  big  man  controlled  him.  "No  matter  about 
that,  Carstairs.  We  all  know!"  He  looked  back  to  the 
others,  nodding  as  if  to  their  unspoken  thoughts.  "There 
were  six  of  us,  that  night.  There  are  four  now.  The 
question  is:  what  are  we  going  to  do?" 

Carstairs  leaned  forward.  "Do?"  he  asked.  "You 
want  to  know  what  we're  going  to  do?" 

"That's  right,"  the  musician  broke  in:  "it's  bad  enough 
to  have  you  talk  on,  in  your  cursed,  quiet  way,  as  if 
you'd  read  it  in  a  story  somewhere.  But,  when  you  ask  us 

what  we're  going  to "  His  face  changed.  "  Ormsby , 

can't  you  manage  something,  anything?"  Like  a 
prisoner,  he  ran  his  eyes  over  the  American's  great  body 


138  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

enviously.  "I  say,"  he  trailed  off,  "what  are  we  going  to 
do?  We'd  got  over  Jem's  going.  Almost  believed 
Hammerstone.  Know  I  did.  Things  seemed  all  right 

again.    But    this,    with    Hugh "    He    went    back, 

"Remember  how  we  said  we'd  been  off  our  heads  that 
night  that  devil  came  in?  How  we  said  It  had  hypno 
tized  us;  that  was  why  we'd  made  such  a  mountain  out 
of  it?  End  of  the  world  for  us?  Nothing  to  hope  for 
after  it?  Laughed,  you  remember?"  his  haggard  face 
seeking  their  corroboration,  "Got  the  play  going?  Never 
got  on  so  well  at  the  rehearsals?  All  sorts  of  confidence? 
Almost  believed  the  News  had  it  right,  and  Jem  had  only 
run  away  from  his  debts?  All  truck!  Sane,  when  we 
thought  we'd  been  mad,  and  mad,  when  we  thought  we 
were  sane.  Sane  now!"  The  singer's  voice,  the  rare 
timbre  frayed  out,  finished  without  interruption.  There 
was  a  long  silence. 

And  the  big  man,  looking  from  one  to  another  of  the 
three  men  who  seemed  absolutely  to  have  forgotten  him, 
understood :  he  knew  that  their  silence  cost  them  nothing, 
for  they  could  not  have  desired  to  say  anything.  There 
was  nothing  to  say.  Not  even  he,  the  safest  of  the  four  — 
since  the  other  three  must  go  before  he  did  —  could 
suggest  anything;  and  how  much  less  must  there  be  for 
them!  He  knew  that  they  would  pass  from  the  room, 
presently,  and,  singly  or  together,  realize,  as  they  went 
out,  that  they  might  have  looked  into  each  other's  faces 
for  the  last  time.  It  could  be  no  other  way.  Nothing 
could  save  them  from  that  realization.  They  might 
never  see  each  other  again!  Each  parting,  now,  at  the 
club,  or  at  the  rooms  of  any  one  of  them,  or  at  any  one 


WHOM  CHAD  WELL  LEFT  BEHIND    139 

of  the  houses  they  met,  might  be  the  last.  A  good 
night  must  now  have  the  significance  of  a  good-bye.  The 
world  would  see  them  as  nearly  themselves  as  their  wills 
could  muster;  but  the  three  would  know,  just  as  he  did. 
They  must  think  of  it  without  relief.  And  each  meeting, 
after  however  brief  a  separation,  would  be  a  victory, 
a  staving  off,  still,  of  the  definite  Fate  which  now  bayed 
in  full  cry  after  them. 

He  knew  that  he  should  see  at  least  two  of  the  three 
again.  It  was  probable,  rather,  for  it  was  conceivable 
that  the  three  would  go  at  once.  But  he  expected  that 
one  by  one  would  be  the  way  of  it.  First,  one  taken, 
and  two  left;  then  another  off,  leaving  one.  Then, 
that  one.  And  then—  — ! 

For  the  first  time,  his  strong  face  set,  and  his  body 
sagged  with  something  of  the  others'  inertia.  But  he 
straightened  his  shoulders  until  his  back  took  on  its  old 
flatness.  "We've  got  to  look  this  thing  in  the  face  now 
for  it's  become  an  absolute  certainty.  We've  got  to 
watch  ourselves,  let  others  take  risks.  I  just  said  I 
hoped  I'd  have  done  what  Chad  well  did,  if  I'd  been  in 
his  place,  but  I  take  that  back,  for  our  first  duty,  from 
now  on,  is  to  protect  each  other  and  in  no  way  hasten 
the  Thing's  development.  We've  got  to  stick  together, 
here  in  Durban." 

"I  don't  know,"  Greg  said,  speaking  for  the  first  time, 
and  looking  about  him  in  an  absent  way  which  suggested 
Catherine  Hetheridge  to  the  big  man.  "  I've  been  thinking 
ever  since  you  met  me,  there  at  the  gate,  and  right  through 
your  cursed  sermon,  that  you'd  go  back  to  America. 
Why  under  Heaven  don't  you?  You've  got  money.  Why 


140  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

do  you  hang  on  here,  telling  us  what  we've  got  to  do? 
Oh,  I  know  you're  right,"  going  back  to  his  dead  mono 
tone  again.  "  I  know  all  that,  but He  broke 

off  abruptly,  studying  the  American  as  one  might  a  curi 
osity,  and  saying,  under  his  breath,  to  no  one  in  particu 
lar,  "If  the  Thing  were  reversed,  I  mean  our  places, 
I'd  .  .  .  Again,  he  broke  off,  only  again  to  come 

back  with,  "If  the  chance  were  mine,  I'd  ...  I 
say,"  with  a  perfectly  transparent  effort  toward  casual- 
ness,  "got  any  whiskey  about  the  shop,  Ormsby?  Con 
foundedly  hot,  I  think.  The  one  thing  I've  against 
South  Africa  is  the  climate.  It's  so  confoundedly  hot. 
Just  like  this,  most  of  the  time,  Ormsby.  You'd  be 
surprised."  He  shook  his  head,  frowning.  "Otherwise, 
it's  not  half  a  bad  spot,  South  Africa,  just  except  for  the 
climate!  And  that's  the  one  thing  I  have  against  the 
country :  it's  too  confoundedly  — 

Carstairs  whirled  on  him.  "If  you  go  through  that 
again,  Greg,  I'll  —  Then,  as  Bradbroke  stared  at 
him,  round-eyed,  "  I've  stood  all  I  can 

Paxton  cut  him  short  with  a  flash  of  long  hands,  tense- 
fingered.  "I  know  /  have.  I've  stood  more  than  I  can," 
he  was  buttoning  his  jacket  hit  or  miss,  and  trying  to 
work  back  his  limp  shoulders.  "I'm  going  back  to  my 
rooms.  I'll  do  anything  you  say,  after  I've  gone  home,  to 
my  rooms,  I  mean  —  as  I've  just  said.  I'll  do  anything 
you  agree  to,  I  mean  agree  to  anything  you  do.  You  tell 
me,  one  of  you,  if  you  can,  in  the  morning.  The  trouble 

with  this  climate "  He  choked  back  a  laugh  which 

would  have  ended  in  a  scream.  "The  trouble  with  us 
is  that  we  aren't  taking  this  quietly.  But,  you  know,  I 


WHOM  CHADWELL  LEFT  BEHIND    141 

can't,  somehow:  all  I  can  think  of  is  who's  going  to  be 
the  next  one  to  go.  The  next  one,  see?  That's  all  I 
can  think  of,  now,  and  I  —  don't  —  know  —  what  —  to 
do  —  with  —  it." 

He  bobbed  his  head,  half  extended  his  long,  slender 
hand,  the  hand  of  a  musician,  recalled  it,  hesitated,  then 
went  without  a  look  or  word  from  the  room. 

Carstairs  turned,  as  if  liberated  to  speech  by  the  singer's 
tread  on  the  landing  below.  "  That  chap's  got  a  no  end 
good  voice.  It's  a  pity.  But,"  glancing  at  the  pith 
helmet  Paxton  had  left  behind  him,  "he  ought  not  to 
go  out  in  this  glare  bareheaded:  I  think  it's  bad  for 
the  eyes.  Wouldn't  matter  so  much,"  he  explained  to 
the  big  man,  "in  a  cool  climate;  but  this  place  is  so  con 
foundedly  — 

"Hot,"  Bradbroke  supplied  earnestly.  "It's  the  one 
thing.  .  .  ." 

The  big  man  separated  them  with  a  single  effort  of 
his  great  strength,  "Cut  that  out,"  he  warned  roughly, 
"or  you'll  run  things  off  ahead  of  time.  Calm  down! 
Wy've  all  got  to.  It's  all  we  can  do.  Come  in  in  the 
morning,  and  I'll  try  to  have  something  worked  out, 
though  I  admit  I  don't  know  what.  Now,  both  of  you 
go  out  and  overtake  Paxton.  He's  got  a  wonderful 
voice,  as  you've  said,  Carstairs;  and  he's  got  just  as  won 
derful  a  lot  of  nerves.  Don't  worry  about  his  getting 
a  sunstroke:  it's  night,  nearly!  But  get  hold  of  him 
and  quiet  him.  About  me,  I'm  going  to  stay  on  here 
and  see  this  —  through." 

The  two  younger  men  looked  at  the  American  silently. 
Then  G  reg  went  across  to  where  he  stood  by  the  window : 


142  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

"Much  obliged  for  that,  just  now,"  Bradbroke  said, 
unconsciously  standing  more  erect  and  attempting  to 
straighten  his  collar. 

Carstairs  joined  them.  "Beastly  ass,  I  was!  Thanks. 
Me,  too." 

Greg  took  it  up  again.  "And,  I  say,  I'm  glad  you're 
going  to  stay  along  and  see  us  through  with  it,  I  mean 
up  to  the  last.  And  Carstairs  is.  I  can't  see  anything 
about  it,  but  your  being  in  makes  it  easier.  Come  along, 
Carstairs,  or  Brett  '11  do  something." 

Both  turned  toward  the  door;  then,  as  if  in  obedience  to 
a  common  impulse,  stopped,  half-turned  back,  hands  out, 
toward  the  big  body  which  towered,  facing  them,  broad 
back  to  the  window.  Then  the  hands  fell  almost  guilt 
ily,  and  the  two  men  went,  side-by-side,  down  the  stairs. 

As  they  did  so,  the  big  man  turned  slowly,  until  his 
tired  eyes  had  found  their  direction.  Having  found  it, 
they  brightened  for  one  short  instant.  Then,  as  it  had 
done  once  before,  the  strong,  quiet  face  went  forward 
and  down  until  it  rested  in  his  hands. 

And,  from  him,  went  those  whom  he  had  dismissed, 
he  knew,  to  imagine  his  reflections  and  to  envy  him. 
For  neither  had  his  secret,  no,  nor  ever  should ! 

Then  the  big  man  started  back  from  the  window  on 
whose  sill  his  hands  had  rested,  for  a  gharry  had  stopped 
at  the  gate,  and  he  could  see,  in  the  pale  light,  Anne 
Netherby,  smiling  and  lovely,  and  the  graver,  dearer, 
fairer  young  face  of  the  English  violet  —  then  the  gharry 
moved  away.  His  door  opened. 

"Excuse  me,  Mr.  Ormsby,  but "    The  maid  was 

holding  out  a  note. 


WHOM  CHAD  WELL  LEFT  BEHIND    143 

"  Back  in  fifteen  minutes,  to  carry  Greg  and  you  home 
to  dinner,"  it  said,  and  he  could  hear  Anne's  laugh  in  it. 

He  glanced  at  his  watch.  There  was  time.  He  meant 
time  in  which  to  secure  his  secret  from  her  who  had  been, 
and  should  ever  be,  its  glory  —  to  hide  it  for  all  time  from 
her,  and  from  those  three,  whom,  with  himself,  Chadwell 
had  left  behind. 


CHAPTER  XV 

FLIGHT 

EVEN  after  he  had  boarded  the  train,  and  knew 
that  he  was  on  his  way  to  Kimberley,  he  told 
himself  that  he  was  not  fleeing  from  what  had 
already  struck  Fraser  and  Chadwell  down.  It  was  not 
that,  he  said,  over  and  over.  And  the  man  was  right. 
He  was  in  flight.  With  his  brave  words  barely  off  his 
lips,  he  was  doing  precisely  what  he  had  counselled 
Carstairs  and  Bradbroke  and  the  singer  not  to  do.  Yet 
he  knew  that  flight  had  been  the  only  fair  course  for  him 
since  it  meant  Her  safety  from  his  love. 

He  had  left  her  and  lost  her.  He  knew  there  was 
unforgivable  conceit  in  pairing  the  two  verbs,  that  it  was 
sacrilege  to  affirm  that  he  could  have  won  her  love  if  he 
had  not  gone!  And  yet  there  was  comfort  in  it,  and  so 
absolutely  none  elsewhere.  That  she  would  never  know 
that  he  had  been  so  unworthy  and  so  arrogant,  did  not 
lessen  his  offence.  But  what  he  thought  did  was  his  belief 
that  she  would  have  understood  even  this,  if  his  incred 
ible  calamity  could  have  been  known  to  her.  He  had 
left  her  and  lost  her.  He  had  gone  out  of  her  life.  He 

wondered  who,  in  the  years  that  would  come He 

clutched  his  thoughts  driving  them  from  a  course  un 
endurable  ! 

Drearily,  he  stared  on  town  after  town,   one  wide 

144 


FLIGHT  145 

stretch  after  another,  as  the  track  climbed  west  and 
north.  It  was  the  same  waste  he  had  looked  out  on  when 
he  had  come  down  from  Kimberley  a  month  before.  A 
month?  Barely  that.  But  it  seemed  immeasurably 
longer.  A  very  lifetime  gaped  between  that  then  and 
now. 

Then,  he  had  been  careless,  care-free,  tracing  a  thought 
less  and  empty  life.  When  Bradbroke  had  suggested  a 
month  in  Durban,  how  the  prospect  had  bored  him! 
How  much  more  desirable  the  one-roomed,  sheet-iron 
shack,  and  his  work  had  seemed!  He'd  tried  to  be 
decent  about  it,  and  appreciative  —  but  he  had  told 
Greg  that  he  ought  not  to  take  the  time.  He  had  said: 

"I'll  be  going  back  to  America,  shortly!" 

How  preposterous  it  sounded  now!  Preposterous  even 
then  to  have  so  much  as  thought  of  ever  going  back!  For 
it  had  presupposed  that  things  would  continue  to  jog 
on  as  uneventfully,  he  meant  unobstructingly,  as  they 
had  done  before;  that  he  should  continue  to  be  a  free 
agent,  his  own  master;  that  he  should  continue  to  have 
the  right  to  go  and  come  as  he  would.  But  Greg  had 
insisted.  And  he  had  humoured  him.  He  had  gone  to 
Durban  to  waste  two  weeks.  Two  weeks.  A  month. 
And  now? 

He  leaned  back  in  his  seat,  tearing  his  eyes  from  the 
racing  horizon,  whose  speed  set  his  brain  tipping.  What 
was  he  going  to  do?  WThere  was  he  going?  Home? 
What  was  home  to  him?  Not  America,  certainly. 
What  then?  Durban,  the  home  of  the  Doom  he  could 
never  escape  from?  Hardly!  And  yet,  as  he  framed  the 
denial,  he  knew  that  it  should  have  been  an  affirmative. 


146  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

For  a  Fate,  stronger  even  than  that  which  had  already 
claimed  Fraser  and  Chadwell,  had  found  him  there,  and 
he  knew  it.  ...  Love.  But  at  what  a  cost:  Denial 
of  it,  Flight  from  it,  so  swift  and  sure  that  his  love,  instead 
of  being  his  boast,  must  remain  a  secret  which  he  could 
never  entrust  to  her! 

What  now!  He'd  go  off  to  Kimberley.  The  place  did 
not  matter,  but,  by  going  away  from  her,  he  had  insured 
her  safety  from  becoming  involved  in  the  Curse  which  had 
ruined  him. 

He  believed,  by  now,  that  he  had  come  to  be  absolutely 
frank  with  himself.  Now,  he  knew  that  she  had  never 
cared  for  him.  He  had  never  been  sufficiently  crazed  to 
think  otherwise.  He  understood,  now.  And,  under 
standing,  he  looked  ahead,  not  for  himself,  but  for  her, 
into  the  future  which  should  be  hers:  he  tried  to  see  the 
man  she  would  marry —  his  self-abnegation  attained 
even  that.  She  would  marry  some  one,  some  one  else. 
The  thought  was  new  and  terrible  to  him.  Until  Chad- 
well  had  died,  he  had  not  conceived  such  an  imagining 
possible.  And  not  even  then  had  he  so  flayed  himself 
as  to  consider  it  connectedly.  That  had  not  begun  until 
he  had  looked  from  his  window  in  the  last  lingering,  sky- 
reflected  day,  and  had  seen  her  send  upward  to  him,  from 
the  gharry,  that  little,  greeting  smile.  Unseen  he  had 
seen  it  less  than  he  had  divined  it.  He  could  see  it  now. 
It  would  never  escape  from  his  vision.  Be  the  days  many 
or  few,  which  Fate  should  mete  out  to  him,  he  should  never 
see  anything  else  half  so  clear ! 

She  had  told  him,  then,  that  he  must  go  away  from  her. 
How  little  she  had  realized  the  message!  She  had  not 


FLIGHT  147 

once  thought  of  his  going.  He  had  told  her  that  he  should 
stay  on  in  Durban.  He  wondered  if  she  had  believed 
the  "boy"  who,  by  this,  must  have  told  her  that  he  "had 
gone,  for  a  few  days,  to  the  Cape."  A  few  days  .  .  .  ! 
He  turned  his  weary  eyes  to  the  landscape  which,  crowd 
ing  close  to  the  carriage,  fled  back  toward  Durban  as  he 
himself  would  have  fled,  a  penitent  burning  to  confess  to 
her  an  everlasting  truth. 

What  would  she  think  of  him?  He  tried  not  to  answer 
the  question,  then  tried  to  forget  that  he  had  asked  it  of 
himself.  She  would  set  him  down  as  another  adventurer, 
a  boor,  a  cad,  masquerading  under  the  cleverly  aped  mein 
of  a  man !  And  better  that  way,  since  it  would  facilitate 
her  marrying  the  one  whom  it  was  destined  she  should 
bless ! 

Anne?  Catherine  Hetheridge?  Carstairs,  Greg,  the 
singer?  He  passed  them  lightly.  In  the  scope  of  his 
renunciation,  there  was  not  room  for  thoughts  of  them. 
Children  of  Fate,  they  were,  just  as  he  was,  the  men  facing 
a  fate  grim  even  as  his  own. 

How  strangely  it  had  all  come  on !  How  unreal  it  was, 
still !  Closing  his  eyes  —  he  was  suddenly  very  tired  — 
he  could  almost  believe  that  he  was  back  in  America :  the 
swaying  carriage  of  the  Natal  Government  Railway  was 
carrying  him  through  placid,  peaceful  New  England, 
which  could  never  have  fathered  such  a  tragedy  as  his; 
and  the  people  he  knew,  in  this  safe  land,  could  not  credit 
his  story  though  he  reiterate  it  to  them  to  the  last,  uncer 
tain  day  of  his  ruined  life.  Of  course,  he  could  not  tell 
them :  he  had  been  assuming  merely,  in  order  the  better  to 
define,  for  no  purpose  he  could  conceive  of,  the  impassable 


148  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

limits  of  their  credulity.  Then,  in  the  half -dream  to 
which  his  hopelessness  had  reduced  him,  it  seemed  to  him 
that  he  had  told  them  his  story.  Not  of  the  English 
violet,  for  that  had  been  too  sacredly  his,  too  intimate! 
Never,  to  any  one,  ever,  could  he  open  the  inner  shrine  of 
his  broken  heart !  But  he  had  told  them  of  Fraser,  Chad- 
well,  Carstairs,  and  the  tense-nerved  singer,  and  of  Greg. 
He  had  told  them,  as  well,  of  Catherine  Hetheridge  and 
Anne.  And,  as  he  talked,  he  had  seemed  to  see  Anne 
Netherby  as  he  never  before  had.  For  he  had  realized 
for  the  first  time  that  she  had  given  Greg  his  dissatisfied 
longings,  the  seeds  of  which  it  would  have  been  both  safer 
and  kinder,  in  her,  not  to  sow;  she  had  brought  Greg  to 
the  point  where  he  could  never  settle  down  happily  out 
side  of  England,  and  his  example  had  infected  the  other 
men  of  their  particular  set,  just  as  her  eager  and  bitter 
restlessness  had  touched  the  girls.  It  was  Anne's  product. 
Indubitable  as  a  revelation,  he  read  it:  Anne  was  an 
uneasy  factor  in  South  Africa. 

"No,  I'm  going  to  Jo'burg,"  a  voice  behind  him  said 
suddenly. 

The  dreamer's  lids  opened:  he  was  still  in  Africa. 
Durban  lay  only  a  short  hour  behind.  Then  he  stiffened, 
for,  standing  at  the  farther  end  of  the  corridor  of  the 
carriage,  their  backs  toward  him,  yet  instantly  recog 
nizable,  were  Greg  and  Carstairs. 

For  a  long  moment  he  achieved  the  belief  that  it  was 
only  an  apparition.  One  had  so  many,  and  a  fresh  one 
was  no  more  than  natural.  But,  as  the  car  swung  again, 
he  caught  Greg's  profile,  and  the  quarter  of  Carstairs' 
fixed  features;  and  he  knew  that  his  eyes  had  told  the 


FLIGHT  149 

truth.  He  leaned  forward,  back,  forward:  it  could  not 
be,  must  not  be;  but  was.  He  rose  to  his  feet,  aware  but 
heedless  of  the  long  stares  he  was  earning  from  his  fellow 
passengers,  for  he  was  past  minding  anything  he  might 
seem  or  they  might  think  of  him.  Not  once  did  he  try  to 
guess  what  those  he  reeled  by  thought  of  him;  or  what  he 
should  say,  when  once  he  should  have  made  the  door, 
which  now  seemed  miles  distant,  and  had  offered  himself 
to  those  he  sought.  He  had  not  once  thought  of  what  he 
should  say  to  them.  But  he  swore  to  himself  that  it 
should  be  no  confession.  He  would  make  them  do  the 
talking,  this  time.  They  would  undoubtedly  be  prepared 
to,  and  could  say  what  they  would.  For  they  could  not 
realize  that  he  had 

He  was  through  the  door  then,  saying : 

"  Carstairs?     Bradbroke?  " 

There  was  something  for  the  observers  to  see  now:  the 
three  men  faced  each  other. 

Greg  spoke  thickly:     "In  the  name  of " 

Carstairs  caught  his  arm,  "No,  Greg!  No  need  of 
saying  anything,"  he  flung  at  the  big  man.  "  We  couldn't 
stand  it  out."  He  thrust  Greg  back.  "It's  all  up  now, 
but  why  couldn't  you  have  let  us  go?"  He  sank  slowly 
down  in  the  nearest  seat,  snatched  something  of  his  old, 
erect  carriage,  lost  it,  and  fixed  the  intruder  with  accusing 
eyes. 

Only  the  big  man  remained  standing.  "  If  you  had  this 
all  planned,"  he  said  deliberately,  "why  didn't  you  let 
Paxton  in  on  it?" 

Greg's  lips  moved. 

Carstairs  made  an  uncertain  gesture.     "Would  have. 


150  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

But  he  was  all  to  pieces,  and  got  —  on  —  our  — 
nerves." 

And  Bradbroke  bowed  slightly.  "Beastly,"  he  said, 
with  his  perfect  enunciation  and  manner,  "beastly 
swine!" 

The  big  man  straightened  himself.  How  little,  he 
thought,  Greg  could  know  that,  in  showing  his  racked 
nerves  by  that  icy  allusion,  he  had  called  back  another's 
strength!  The  American  himself  marvelled  at  it,  aware 
of  an  answering  and  almost  overmastering  gratitude.  He 
bent,  until  his  broad  hands  fell  on  the  two  shoulders. 

"Then,  it's  time  we  chucked  this  foolery!"  And  his 
eyes  held  theirs,  as  he  added,  "  Next  thing's  to  get  out  at 
the  first  stop,  and  get  the  first  train  back." 

"Back?"  Greg  leaned  away  from  him,  trying  to 
escape  the  kindly,  relentless  hand. 

"Back,"  the  big  man  repeated.  "We're  going  back  to 
take  care  of  Paxton.  Come,"  as  the  train  slowly  halted. 
"I  think  this  is  Pietermaritzburg." 

And,  half  an  hour  later,  the  three  who  had  faced  north 
west  away  from  what  lay  behind  them,  in  Durban,  entered 
the  train  which  returned  to  it.  But,  through  the  two 
hours  and  a  half  which  followed,  they  neither  stirred  nor 
spoke.  And  they  observed  the  same  silence,  as,  after 
abandoning  the  train  at  the  little  station  at  Durban, 
they  turned,  by  common  consent,  in  the  direction  of  the 
singer's  rooms. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
THE  SINGER'S  ROOMS 

BUT  at  the  first  corner,  Greg  stopped.  "Not  there," 
he  corrected.  "He  wouldn't  go  there.  Don't 
you  see  he  wouldn't  want  to  be  alone.  He'd 
want  companionship,  look  us  up,  after  a  bit  of  wandering, 

think  we  were  somewhere,  the He  had  been  about 

to  say  the  Netherbys',  but  cut  the  words  off.  "  The  club," 
he  said.  "Best  go  there." 

"Don't  think  it,"  Carstairs  objected.  "May  have  gone 
there  first,  but  wouldn't  have  stayed  this  while.  What 
do  you  think,  Ormsby?" 

The  big  man  shook  his  head.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
they  were  wasting  precious  time;  but,  after  all,  Carstairs, 
he  knew,  would  do  as  Greg  said.  "Might  as  well  try  the 
club,  on  the  way." 

They  turned  back  half  a  block,  crossed  through  an 
alley,  coming  out,  in  the  velvety  gloom,  between  an  hotel 
and  an  outbuilding,  crossed  diagonally  into  Essenwood 
Road,  Greg  leading,  Carstairs  next,  the  big  man  following 
a  few  steps  in  the  rear. 

When  they  emerged,  he  found  that  Carstairs  had 
dropped  back  closer  to  him.  "Didn't  care  for  that,  back 
there.  Too  dark!  Chap  never  knows."  He  caught 
himself,  and  stepped  a  little  from  the  big  man,  "Prob- 

151 


152  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

ably,  you  never  think  of  it,  but  with  me "  He 

hesitated,  looking  back,  narrowly. 

Then,  they  were  in  the  half-light  of  a  feeble  street- 
lamp,  which  brightened,  as  they  passed  on,  and  upper 
Essenwood  welcomed  them  with  a  pale,  white,  artificial 
glare.  Lights  everywhere,  now,  in  hotels,  and  club 
windows,  rickshaws,  gharrys,  taxi-cabs,  and  carriages. 
And  Carstairs,  walking  more  briskly,  caught  up  with 
Bradbroke,  so  that  the  two  climbed  the  steps  to  the 
Regent's  rooms  together,  one  of  them  throwing  back,  over 
his  shoulder,  to  the  American: 

"Come  on.     Of  course,  he's  here!" 

But  the  musician  was  not.  The  boy  at  the  door  told 
them. 

"But  he's  been  here  this  afternoon,"  Carstairs  insisted. 

"Since  five,  anyway,"  Greg's  tone  was  that  of  one  who 
knew. 

"No,  sir,"  the  boy  answered.     "Not  since  noon." 

Greg  swung  in  past  him.  "  Best  ask  some  of  the  men, 
and  then  the  steward.  This  fool  wouldn't  know,  any 
way!" 

But  the  steward  verified  the  words  of  the  fool  at  the 
door.  So  did  Colonel  Hackluytt,  and  a  dozen  other  men, 
drowsing  out  the  tag  end  of  a  dull  evening. 

"Not  since  you  and  he  had  lunch  here,  about  two! 
Didn't  you?"  Meredith,  the  last  one  they  asked,  wasn't 
clear  on  the  point.  Maybe  he  had  seen  Paxton.  Thought 
now,  he  probably  had,  somewhere.  With  himself  and 
the  three  of  them,  they  could  kill  the  rest  of  the  evening 
double-quick!  Meredith  signalled  an  attendant  for  a 
pack  of  cards. 


THE  SINGER'S  ROOMS  153 

Carstairs  sank  into  the  nearest  chair.  "I  say,  Greg," 
he  began,  "y°u  don't  need  me.  You  go  along  with 

Ormsby,  like  a  good  chap.  I  don't  feel "  He 

turned  away.  "Let  me  stick  here  with  Meredith. 
I'll  be  here  when  you  come  back.  Honest  to  God, 
I  will!" 

But  Greg's  only  answer  was  a  dull  negative,  and  Car- 
stairs  went  with  them  from  the  room. 

Greg  repented,  when  they  had  reached  the  sidewalk. 
"Had  to  have  you,  Carstairs,  for  Paxton '11  be  all  up  in 
the  air!  You  remember  how  he  was,  this  afternoon. 
You're  the  one:  you've  been  with  him  a  lot  more  than 
any  of  the  rest  of  us." 

"Yes,"  Carstairs  said,  obediently,  "I've  been  with  him 
a  lot.  I  always  had."  Realizing  that  he  had  dropped 
into  the  pluperfect,  he  raced  on:  "In  fact,  I  fancy  I'm 
the  only  chap  down  here  who  understands  him  properly. 
Then,  too,  I  always  play  his  accompaniments." 

"Here,"  said  Greg  after  the  long  silence,  during  which 
they  had  walked  quickly,  "he  lives  here." 

They  let  themselves  in  with  a  key  which  Carstairs 
brought  from  his  pocket;  and  filed,  one  by  one,  up  the 
narrow  stairs.  The  stairs  were  narrow,  bare  almost.  In 
themselves,  they  told  Paxton's  poverty.  The  big  man 
understood,  now,  why  the  singer  had  never  invited  him 
to  his  rooms. 

"Brett,"  Greg  called,  at  the  first  landing.  "I  say, 
Brett,  old  chap!" 

They  waited. 

"Just  so,"  Carstairs  nodded  in  relief.     "Not  here." 

"Let's  try  the  club  again,"  Greg  began.     "Unless,  of 


154  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

course,"  he  looked  at  the  big  man,  "you  think  we  might 
better  go  on  up  and  make  sure?" 

"Yes,  we'd  better  go  on  up  and  make  sure." 

"Then  go  ahead  first,  will  you?"  Carstairs  voice  denied 
its  lighter  tone  of  the  past  moment.  "Of  course,  he's 
probably " 

"Club,"  supplied  Greg,  with  an  effort.  "But " 

His  voice  trailed  off,  and  he  indicated  the  next  flight  to 
the  American.  "'Way  to  the  top,"  he  warned.  "Too 
bad  he  had  to  live  in  such  a  place."  It  was  the  pluper 
fect  again,  but,  this  time,  left  as  it  was. 

Two  flights,  three,  climbed  in  deepening  silence. 

"There.  In  there,"  Carstairs  said,  at  the  big  man's 
back. 

The  American  knocked,  waited,  then  swung  the  door  in. 

If  the  stairs  were  bare,  the  room  was  barer:  only  a  roll 
of  music,  protruding  from  the  half-open  door  of  a  cabinet, 
which  stood  just  to  the  right  of  a  battered  piano,  which 
must  have  been  gotten  up  there  in  sections,  told  them  that 
Brett  Paxton  had  ever  lived  there.  For  the  room  sug 
gested  nothing  of  Paxton,  the  artist,  the  exquisite.  The 
American  could  almost  have  spanned  it  with  his  arms. 
There  was  a  bed  in  one  corner.  It  almost  prevented  the 
door  closing.  A  book  or  two,  some  papers,  all  with  an 
English  imprint;  a  closet,  with  neatly-hung  clothing  in 
various  stages  of  disrepair;  these  going  oddly  with  the 
dim  outline  of  a  pig-skin  hat-box,  half  a  dozen  decent 
sticks,  a  riding-crop,  breeches,  a  jacket,  pistols  in  a  heavy 
case  with  a  crest,  and  a  suit  of  evening  clothes  protected 
by  a  silk  outing  shirt. 

These,  the  big  man's  quick  eyes  took  in  instantly. 


THE  SINGER'S  ROOMS  155 

Then,  he  stepped  to  the  table,  over  which  Carstairs  and 
Greg  leaned.  And  their  aspect  told  him  what  held  them 
motionless.  For  on  that  felt-covered  table  there  was  an 
envelope,  sealed,  and  addressed  to  Carstairs. 

Taking  it  nearer  to  the  lamp,  which  the  big  man  had 
lighted,  and  which  now  tilted  crazily  on  its  worn  support, 
Carstairs  broke  the  envelope. 

"I'll  read  it  through  first;  then '  But  he  did  not 

finish,  for  the  single  sheet  fluttered  heavily  down  from  his 
hands  to  the  table,  and  all  of  them  could  read: 

"Carstairs,  tell  Greg  and  Onnsby  I've  gone  after  Fraser  and  Chad- 
well.  Forgive  me,  all  of  you,  for  bringing  it  a  peg  closer.  But  I  couldn't 
stand  it  any  longer  and  I've  gone  to  It." 

"He's  gone,"  Carstairs  breathed  at  last.    "I  knew  it." 

No  evidence  of  surprise.  It  had  not  been  that  to  any 
of  them. 

"Easier  for  him,  that  way,  of  course,"  Bradbroke  com 
mented.  "He  might  have  stood  it  out!" 

"I  don't  know,"  Carstairs  took  him  up  critically:  "I 
think  he  wasn't  so  far  wrong.  It  was  his  own  affair.  I 
mean  we  could  hardly  have  expected  him  to  stay  on  just 
for  our  sakes,  when  he  felt  that  way."  He  nodded,  and 
then  shook  his  head  a  little.  "I  wonder  where  he  is  now; 
and  if  the  spirit  has  to  fly,  alone,  through  infinity,  until 
it  lands  up  where  it  —  belongs.  Or  I  wonder  if  he's 
caught  up  with  Fraser  and  Chadwell  as  soon  as  this;  if 

they're  talking  it  over.  By  Heaven He  broke 

off  abruptly.  "I  say,  do  either  of  you  chaps  believe  in 
Hell?"  He  nodded  again,  following  that  with  the  same, 
odd  inclination  of  his  head.  "I  don't  know,  personally," 


156  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

he  explained,  "I  don't  know,  myself.  But  then,"  he 
supplemented,  "how  in  hell  could  I?  That's  the  point!" 
He  was  imputing  his  ignorance  solely  to  his  total  lack  of 
opportunity  to  learn.  He  nodded  again,  "  That's  the 
point!"  He  leaned  over  the  bit  of  paper  on  which  the 
singer  had  set  down  his  confession  of  surrender.  "I  don't 
know  how  you  chaps  feel  about  this,  but,  personally,  I 
believe  he  acted  within  his  rights.  For,"  his  eyes  sym 
pathetic  and  sane  again,  "  what  had  he  to  live  for,  I  mean 
even  before  that  cursed  prophecy?  What  had  he,  after 
that  girl  sent  him  that  picture?  He  hadn't  even  heard 
she  was  married,  yet!  What  had  he,  then?  What  had 
any  of  us?  Greg,"  almost  appealingly,  "you  know!  Bad 
enough  before,  it  was.  But  now!  A  month  ago,  there 
were  six  of  us,  counting  you  in,  Ormsby.  Then,  Jem  out. 
Next  Hugh  Chadwell.  Then,  Brett,  here.  And  now 

The  big  man  had  gotten  in  the  way  of  obstructing  these 
pauses.  He  went  slowly  across  to  the  speaker.  "Yes, 
that's  the  way  of  it,  old  man;  but  what's  the  use  of  dwell 
ing  on  it?  None!"  Taking  the  singer's  note  from  the 
table,  he  held  it  down  the  lamp  chimney  until  it  burned, 
then  dropped  it  into  the  single  ash-receiver.  No  one 
spoke,  as  it  writhed,  and  wrung  itself  into  a  blackened, 
decipherable  crisp. 

Then,  he  turned  back  to  them :  "  There  was  no  need  of 
keeping  it.  We  shan't  forget  what  he  said.  And  now, 
what  we  all  need's  some  sort  of  a  vacation,  something  to 
get  this  latest  taste  of  this  out  of  our  mouths.  Can't  we 
catch  a  boat,  off  somewhere?"  He  looked  from  one  to 
the  other.  "I've  got  it,"  he  said,  not  letting  them  realize 
that  they  could  suggest  nothing,  "we'll  run  down  to  the 


"  ' Tell  Greg  and  Ormsby  I've  gone  after 
Fraser  and  Chadwell '  " 


THE  SINGER'S  ROOMS  157 

Cape  for  a  little  change  of  scene,  some  new  people,  hit  a 
theatre,  and  loaf  a  bit  'out-of-school,'  generally.  Then, 
after  a  few  days  we'll  come  back  here  and  —  take  what's 
measured  out  for  us." 

Greg  looked  up  at  him  almost  insolently.  "You  speak 
as  if  there  were  some  doubt  of  what  we'll  get?" 

"I  don't  mean  to,"  returned  the  big  man.  "I  believe 
I  feel  as  sure  as  you  do.  I'll  even  add  that  I  don't  feel  any 
security  in  being  alive  another  hour."  He  went  to  the 
door.  "I'm  going  to  telephone  for  the  reservations  and 
tickets  for  the  boat,  to-night.  It's  the  best  thing  left  I 
can  think  of.  I'll  have  all  the  stuff  ready;  all  either  of 
you'll  have  to  do  is  to  pick  up  what  you'll  want  for  three 
days,  and  that  won't  be  much.  Then,  get  yourselves 
down  to  the  Rennie  dock  at  eleven  forty-five.  It's  the 
Inanda,  sails  at  midnight.  I  know,  for  I  looked  her  up, 
expecting  to  take  a  run  down  there,  before." 

Greg  nodded.     "A  vacation's  what  we  need." 

"If  it'll  do  anything  for  us,"  said  Carstairs. 

"That's  the  point,"  Greg  appended. 

The  big  man  turned  back  to  them  almost  angrily: 
they  were  beginning  to  repeat  themselves  again,  slipping 
off  from  what  little  steadiness  he'd  been  able  to  inspire. 
Greg  seemed  the  leader  in  this,  too.  Up  to  now,  he  had 
appeared  stronger  than  Carstairs,  less  overpowered  by  the 
singer's  leap  into  the  ultimate.  But  now  Greg's  eyes 
were  wistful;  not  wild;  instead,  infinitely  sad.  "Come, 
Greg,  old  man,  and  you,  Carstairs,"  said  the  American, 
"we're  going  to  stand  this  out  side  by  side,  wait  till  our 
time  comes,  do,  with  all  that  lies  in  us,  what  we  know  to 
be  the  best  for  —  every  one." 


158  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

Greg  started  at  the  unlooked-for  conclusion.  "Yes," 
he  said,  with  new  intensity,  "the  best  for  every  one!" 

"And,  one  thing  more,"  warned  the  big  man:  "let's 
not  talk  any  more,  for  a  while,  about  Paxton,  or  about 
this  afternoon,  there  on  the  train.  That's  past  and  gone." 

He  walked  to  the  doorway.  "At  the  Rennie  dock, 
remember,"  he  Galled  back  over  his  big  shoulder.  He  had 
reached  his  limit,  and  he  knew  it.  And  he  kept  his  set 
face  turned  from  them,  as  he  repeated,  "eleven  forty -five." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

ON  THE  RENNIE  DOCK  AT  ELEVEN 
FORTY-FIVE 

HE  KNEW  that  he  could  rely  on  their  keeping 
this  promise.  And  he  knew  more :  that  neither 
of  them  suspected  that  he,  too,  had  attempted 
flight;  that,  if  they  thought  of  it  at  all,  it  would  be  only 
to  agree  that  he  had  seen  them  board  the  train,  just  as 
it  had  pulled  out  of  Durban,  and  had  come  after  them. 

"And  best  that  way,"  he  said  to  himself,  though  without 
elation,  almost  without  interest.  In  fact,  it  seemed  very 
far  back  behind  now.  Everything,  even  Chadwell's  death, 
seemed  to  have  been  thrust  ages  back  by  the  singer's 
suicide. 

And  now  what?  The  big  man  stopped  his  slow  stride, 
to  look  about  him  in  the  thick  darkness.  He  felt  the  sea 
air  on  his  cheeks,  the  night  wind  sweeping  in  from  the 
Indian  Ocean.  Yes,  that  was  one  answer:  the  ocean  was 
there,  waiting.  Had  the  impatient  singer  gone  to  it, 
with  the  picture  of  the  girl  who  had  found  she  couldn't 
wait?  The  irony  of  it  struck  through  him:  neither  of 
them  had  been  able  to  wait;  but,  with  the  girl,  it  had  been 
impatience  of  a  sort  how  apart  from  that  which  had  driven 
Paxton  to  his  death! 

The  ocean,  the  ocean!  Probably,  the  singer  had  gone 
that  way,  the  surest  as  it  was  the  simplest.  And  now, 

159 


160  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

where  the  tide  had  carried  him,  gently,  he  was  sleeping 
his  endless  sleep. 

He  had  walked  blindly  on,  keeping  the  path  he  knew 
not  how;  and,  suddenly,  he  stopped  short,  for  the  sound  of 
a  song,  with  the  note  of  a  subdued  accompaniment,  had 
awakened  him.  He  breathed,  staring  about  him,  then 
caught  his  throat  with  his  hands:  He  had  not  stopped 
too  soon.  An  open  gate  was  before  him:  It  was  the 
Netherbys'.  Through  the  darkness,  his  heart  had  guided 
him  to  her ! 

He  turned  instantly.  But  too  late.  A  white  figure 
was  approaching,  and,  his  own  drill  snow  white,  his  bulk 
loomed  easily  recognizable. 

At  least,  so  it  was  to  her,  and  she  came  directly  toward 
him. 

"Mr.  Ormsby!"  Now,  she  was  closer.  And  still 
approaching  him. 

He  heard  her  only  with  difficulty,  though  he  had  kept 
his  position,  yes,  gone  a  step  toward  her. 

Then,  his  hand  had  gone  out  to  her,  for  his  will  had 
surrendered  to  his  heart. 

"I  had  to  see  you,"  he  heard  himself  saying.  Should 
he  never  win  back  his  self-control?  "I  had  to  come  to 
you."  His  voice  went  from  him.  He  felt  her  hand 
tighten,  and  realized,  then,  for  the  first  time,  what  must 
have  been  her  anguish  at  his  clutch. 

She  made  no  effort  to  free  herself;  but  she  had  fallen 
as  silent  as  himself. 

Their  hands  parted,  his  senses  blind  to  all  the  world 
but  her. 

"What  is  it?"     The  voice,  sudden,  and  full  of  fear, 


ON  THE  RENNIE  DOCK  161 

was  not  hers  but  Anne's.  "You  don't  mean ?  Not 

Greg?" 

It  recalled  the  sanity  he  fought  for.  "No,"  he  achieved 
"not  Greg."  He  hesitated,  then  turned  half  away  from 
them;  "but  another  terrible  thing  has  come:  Paxton  has 
—  gone."  How  grateful  he  was  for  remembering,  even 
in  that  moment,  to  sustain  the  lie!  He  had  almost  said 
that  the  singer  had  killed  himself.  He  went  on:  "Greg 

and  Carstairs  and  I He'd  left  a  note  for  us.  It  — 

we  just  found  it.  He'd  been  despondent "  He 

remembered  again,  by  a  miracle.  "His  debts!  And  now 
he's  gone." 

"Oh  —  the  poor  fellow!  The  poor "  It  was  the 

English  violet,  ending  uncertainly.  "I "  She  turned 

to  Anne.  "  If  only " 

"Gone?"  Anne  demanded.  "You  don't  mean  he's 
committed " 

He  was  glad  of  the  protecting  darkness.  "He  said 
nothing  of  where  he  was  going.  It  was  the  way  he  was 
fixed  here.  And  ChadwelFs  death,  and  Eraser's  leaving! 
He " 

"Chadwell?"    That  was  all,  the  one  word. 

How  could  he  have  supposed  that  they  had  heard?  He 
struggled  to  hold  himself  to  naturalness  or  to  something 
approaching  that. 

"We've  just  got  the  word:  he  was  drowned  while  try 
ing  to  rescue  men  imprisoned,  by  the  water,  in  the  Wit- 
watersrand."  He  gave  them  no  time  for  questions. 
"I'm  —  we're  doing  what  we  can.  It  hasn't  been  much. 
Greg  and  Carstairs  and  I've  agreed  to " 

"What?"    Anne  demanded  fiercely,     ''What?" 


162  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

"They've  got  to  be  gotten  away,  for  a  little,  from  the 
scene  of  this,  both  of  them.  I'm  taking  them  to-night 
to  the  Cape,"  he  kept  on,  through  Anne's  sudden  cry  of 
negation.  "  Only  two  days.  Then,  I'll  bring  them  back. 
Nothing  can  come  to  either  of  them  while  they're  with 
me." 

A  hand  caught  his  arm.  "But  you?"  A  voice  said, 
close  to  his  face.  It  was  not  Anne,  who  spoke  now. 
"Buti/ow/" 

A  wave  of  gladness  and  grief  swept  over  him.  Auto 
matically,  his  hand  covered  the  small,  true  one  which  he 
loved.  "I'll  come  back,"  he  promised  dully.  "Good 
bye."  Then,  though  he  heard  her  voice  calling  to  him, 
above  Anne's  convulsive  sobbing,  he  broke  through  the 
gate  to  the  silent  street. 

"The  dock,"  he  heard  himself  saying  aloud.  "I've 
still  time!" 

Like  a  madman,  he  raced  through  the  deserted  dark 
ness,  a  vast,  white  figure,  with  the  face  of  a  lost  one,  and 
sad,  set  eyes.  On,  through  streets  which  the  varied  crowd 
of  the  day  had  left  vacant;  on  and  down,  into  the  soft 
wind,  the  breath  of  the  summoning,  not  distant  sea. 
Until,  after  what  had  seemed  interminable  time  to  him,  he 
reached  the  water-front  and  the  place  he  sought. 

Instantly,  he  won  tickets  and  staterooms,  one  for 
Greg  and  Carstairs  —  he  knew  they  would  want  to  be 
together  —  and  the  other  for  himself.  Then,  out  again 
to  the  dock-head,  where  he  should  be  found  the  moment 
they  should  come.  He  glanced  at  his  watch.  It  was 
eleven-fifty. 

One  minute,  two,  three,  four.    Then,  a  tall, 


ON  THE  RENNIE  DOCK  163 

figure  in  white  drill  emerged  from  the  path  leading  out 
from  the  warehouse,  and  he  knew  that  Greg  had  come. 

"Where's  Carstairs?"  the  big  man  breathed,  as  Greg 
came  up  with  him.  "I  thought  he'd  be  with  you." 

Greg  was  looking  about,  through  the  darkness.  "He 
said  he'd  get  what  he  wanted,  from  his  rooms,  then  come 
back  for  me,  or,  if  he  hadn't  time,  come  straight  here 
by  himself.  Where's  your  stuff?  On  board?  Here's 
mine." 

It  was  not  much,  but  enough,  and,  in  another  moment, 
it  had  been  given  to  a  boy,  with  the  number  of  the  state 
room  into  which  it  should  be  stowed. 

"Good,"  said  the  big  man,  his  eyes  glued  again  to  the 
entrance  through  which  Carstairs  must  come.  "He's 
probably  on  the  way  now.  He  knows  the  time."  He 
glanced  again  at  his  watch. 

"How  much?"     Greg  asked,  fearfully. 

"Four  minutes." 

Greg  swung  toward  the  plank.  "We'd  best  be  getting 
on.  Sure  he's  not  somewhere  on  the  boat?  He  knew 
the  time." 

"No,  he's  not  here.  I've  looked  over  her.  But  he's 
got  to  come." 

"Yes,  he's  got  to,"  Greg  echoed. 

The  American  knew  why  Greg  had  repeated  that 
"got  to." 

"You  think"  —  Greg  came  closer — "y°u  think  he'll 
come?" 

The  words  were  drowned,  with  the  big  man  s  answer, 
by  the  splash  of  one  of  the  stern  lines.  Then  ,a  bowline 
fell  off;  and  the  air  was  rent  with  whistles,  warning  ashore 


164  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

those  who  had  come  on  board  to  take  leave  of  outbound 
passengers. 

Two  minutes  gone.  Three  of  the  four.  .  .  .  And 
still  no  sign  of  Carstairs. 

Greg  caught  the  big  man  by  the  wrist.  "I  say,  is  it 
only  because  I  want  it  so,  or  is  there  something  moving, 
over  there?  "  His  voice  ended  in  a  nervous  grasp.  "  Car- 
stairs!"  he  called  shrilly.  "Carstairs!"  He  started 
violently  as  the  very  dock  seemed  to  give  before  the  im 
pact  of  a  vast  body.  He  whirled,  holding  the  other  with 
both  hands  now.  "In  the  name  of  God!  what's  that? " 

And  the  big  man  steadied  the  boy,  as  he  answered 
quietly : 

"That  was  the  Inanda,  Greg.  She's  —  gone."  He 
gave  him  no  time,  and  his  groan  no  answer  or  recogni 
tion.  "Come  on  back  to  my  rooms,"  he  said  very  dis 
tinctly  and  deliberately,  looking  away  from  him,  for  he 
knew  what  his  words  meant:  that  the  steamer  had  sailed 
without  them  —  that  Carstairs  had  not  come. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
THE  ONE  THING  LEFT  TO  DO 

A  THEY  left  the  dock,  and  came  out  upon  the 
narrow  boardwalk  which  connected  the  warehouse 
yard  with  the  street  sidewalk,  it  seemed  to  the 
big  man  that  he  had  walked  there,  alone  with  Greg,  be 
fore.  He  wondered,  then  stopped  wondering.  He  gave 
up  the  riddle.  There  were  so  many,  he  had  found,  and 
not  one  with  an  answer,  in  South  Africa. 

"Just  a  moment,  Greg,"  he  warned  as  a  motor  whizzed 
by,  giving  him  barely  time  to  drag  the  other  back. 

"What,"  came  Bradbroke's  surprised  question.  "I  say, 
Ormsby,  what  did  you  do  that  for?  " 

"Nothing,"  said  the  big  man  steadily. 

They  walked  along  without  speaking.  Under  the  first 
street-lamp,  Greg  pulled  himself  free  from  the  American's 
guiding  hand.  "  No  need  of  that,  you  know,"  he  objected, 
petulantly.  "It's  not  as  if  I  couldn't  make  it  alone.  I 
say,  where's  Carstairs?" 

"He  didn't  come,"  said  the  American  slowly. 

Greg's  stare  was  that  almost  of  an  inebriate.  "You 
say  he  didn't ?" 

"He  didn't  come  to  the  boat,  didn't  meet  us.  Come  on. 
We're  going  to  my  rooms." 

"Good!"  Greg  said,  quite  naturally.  It  was  fairly  late, 
his  manner  suggested,  and  they'd  been  off  for  a  walk, 

165 


166  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

somewhere.  "I'm  dead-beat.  That's  the  truth  of  it. 
I  say,  got  an  extra  bed?" 

"No,  but  the  couch  will  muster  with  rugs  and  cush 
ions." 

"Right  O!  I'm  dropping."  Then,  without  warning, 
it  came  to  him.  The  big  man  knew  from  the  grip  on  his 
arm.  "Ormsby,  it  means  Carstairs  —  He  could 

not  say  it  yet.  "Ormsby,  what  are  we  going  to  do  now?" 

"We're  going  to  my  rooms,  first,"  the  American  said. 
"No,  his  first,  though  I  don't  expect  he's  left  any  word." 

It  was  but  a  dozen  short  blocks,  and  they  made  it, 
walking  as  men  who  felt,  in  their  errand,  only  an  idle 
interest.  Greg  had  gathered  himself,  and  now  moved 
labouredly  but  without  need  of  the  big  man's  arm.  Both 
were  thinking  of  what  they  should  agree  to,  of  what  would 
be  the  only  thing  to  agree  to,  in  the  wray  of  explanation, 
after  they  had  found  Carstairs'  rooms  void  of  him. 

So  that  they  were  not  surprised,  after  they  had  swung 
Carstairs'  door  in.  He  had  left  no  word,  no  note,  as 
Chadwell  and  Paxton  had.  But  there  was  a  trunk,  locked, 
with  a  key  on  the  top  of  it;  some  small  things,  hurriedly 
done  up,  as  if  Carstairs  had  been  afraid  they  might  come 
before  he  had  finished:  a  small  package  of  books,  ad 
dressed  to  Bradbroke;  some  hunting  prints,  good  ones, 
stacked  in  a  corner,  addressed  to  the  American.  There 
was  no  telling  or  guessing  when  Carstairs  had  stripped 
his  walls;  but  it  must  have  been  some  time  back,  for  the 
writing  on  the  tag  was  in  ink,  and  the  words,  "For 
Ormsby,"  had  been  written  in  a  steady  hand. 

Greg  stared  at  it.  "Gad,  he  kept  it  to  himself  well! 
He  must  have  expected  to  go  any  time,  even  before  he 


THE  ONE  THING  LEFT  TO  DO       167 

knew  about  Paxton.  Good  nerve,  I  say,  not  to  show  it! 
And,  next  to  poor  Brett,  I'd  thought  him  the  shakiest  of 
the  six!"  He  looked  suddenly  over  his  shoulder  into  the 
darkness,  as  if  awaiting  the  listening  wraith  of  Carstairs. 

And  the  big  man  nodded.  "Yes,  he  had  good  stuff  in 
him.  Now,  Greg,  let's  get  out  of  here.  No,"  as  Brad- 
broke  lifted  the  lamp  and  looked  again  about  him,  "we've 
seen  all  there  is,  and  waiting  around  won't  help.  He 
felt  that  he  had  a  right  to  go.  You  remember  what 
he  said  of  Paxton?  That  he'd  acted  only  within  his 
rights?"  He  spoke  very  simply,  watching  Bradbroke 
guardedly.  Expecting  the  other's  collapse  now  at  any 
moment,  he  steadied  him  in  every  way  he  could.  "Come, 
old  man.  We'll  go  to  my  rooms,  for  they're  handy,  and 
they'll  do  for  us  both,  to-night."  If  he  could  once  get 
Greg  there  .  .  . 

He  succeeded.  But  once  there,  Greg  threw  himself 
face  downward  on  the  couch,  all  his  resistance  gone.  And 
the  big  man,  realizing  this,  said  nothing,  but  filled  his 
pipe  with  the  Boer  tobacco,  which  Hackluytt  had  never 
designed  for  such  an  hour  as  this,  and  clothed  his  strong 
face  with  a  mask  of  smoke. 

Through  the  drift  of  the  smoke-cloud,  he  scanned 
Greg's  spent,  graceful  figure.  He  had  done  right  to 
bring  Greg  here.  He  knotted  his  hands.  They  were 
big-boned  and  resolute.  He  might  be  able  to  stand  the 
waiting,  to  fight  it  through  till  the  End  came;  but  Greg 
could  not  have  endured  by  himself.  Greg  had  to  be 
helped  out.  Had  it  not  been  Decreed,  the  big  man  asked 
himself,  that  he  should  supplant  Greg's  weakness  out  of 
his  physical  plenitude?  Impossible?  Yes,  of  course. 


168  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

But  why  heed  that,  since  everything  about  him,  now,  was 
impossible?  Everything  near  and  dear  to  him,  all  that 
would  have  fed  his  heart !  On  the  other  hand,  there  were 
no  longer  such  things  as  impossibilities:  he  could  credit 
am/thing  now  —  anything  short  of  his  escape  from  the 
curse  which  was  working  its  way  so  effectively.  Yes,  it 
had  been  Decreed  that  he  should  help  Greg's  lack  with 
his  own  plenitude.  This  Impossible,  like  all  the  rest, 
had  become  Inevitable.  He  was  destined  to  give,  and 
Greg  was  destined  to  receive  from  him.  And  what  a 
return  Greg  had  made !  Greg  had  found  him  safe,  happy, 
and  care-free;  if  Greg  had  kept  out  of  his  life,  he  would 
never  have  known  Durban;  long  before  this,  he  would 
have  sickened  of  those  golden  geysers  at  Kimberley  and 
taken  the  first  boat  home.  Greg  had  stepped  in  and 
spoiled  everything  in  the  world  for  him,  ruined  him, 
wrecked  him,  killed  him  by  bringing  him  to  Durban; 
however  unable  Greg  had  been  to  read  the  future.  .  .  . 

Then,  in  the  last  fraction  of  a  second  before  his  strong 
hands  had  completed  their  journey,  habit  saved  the 
American:  his  eyes  had  gone  to  the  window,  found  their 
direction,  told  him  that  she  was  there.  Cautiously,  he 
interposed  a  rug  between  Greg  and  the  night  wind,  turned 
the  lamp  slowly  down,  then  extinguished  it.  Then,  with 
a  tread  so  light  that  it  could  not  disturb  the  sleeper,  the 
big  man  found  his  bed. 


CHAPTER  XIX 
IN  RECOGNITION  OF  THE  TRUTH 

MORNING  had  flared  up  out  of  the  Indian 
Ocean.  The  American  lay  motionless  but 
unsleeping,  as  he  had  lain  through  the  night, 
unable  to  divorce,  from  his  restless  brain,  what  had 
prostrated  the  younger  and  weaker  man.  Seeing  Greg 
rouse,  the  big  man  nodded. 

"Glad  you're  awake.     I  thought  you  never  would." 

"I  wish "  Bradbroke  began,  then  broke  off  sud 
denly.  "Is  it  true,  Ormsby?  Has  Carstairs  gone  out, 
too?" 

"  Yes,  it's  still  true,  Greg.  He  went  out  of  this 
world  last  night.  You  and  I  are  all  that's  left,  and 
we've  got  to  face  it."  He  stopped,  and  turned  his  eyes 
from  the  younger  man,  rose,  walked  slowly  to  the 
window,  and  stood  looking  out  dully.  He  was  giving 
Greg  time  to  gather  what  was  left  of  his  sanity  and 
strength;  he  was  asking  himself  how  best  to  begin  what 
he  knew  he  must  now  make  clear:  this  plan  of  his, 
which  Greg  would  first  revolt  from,  yet  must  inevitably 
accept.  He  turned  back,  for  the  thing  had  to  be 
done,  and  he'd  best  be  doing  it. 

"  There's  no  good  in  asking  ourselves  why  this  thing 
had  to  come  to  us.  All  we  shall  ever  know  is  that  it 
was  laid  out  for  us,  scheduled.  Of  course  Jem  Fraser 

169 


170  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

went  so  quick  he  didn't  get  the  first  hint  of  it;  but 
it  was  clear  enough  to  Chad  well;  they  said,  up  there 
at  the  mine,  that  he  seemed  downright  anxious  to  be 
down  where  the  water  was;  'as  if,'  and  I'm  quoting  the 
superintendent's  own  words,  'Chadwell  knew  it  was 
going  to  give  him  relief!'  You'll  agree  with  me  there's 
something  significent  and  terrible  about  that:  I  mean, 
he  felt  what  was  coming.  Even  then,  though  he  wasn't 
imaginative  like  Brett  or  even  poor  Carstairs,  he'd  looked 
ahead  and  It  had  caught  his  eyes  to  the  point  of  fascina 
tion,  obsession,  derangement,  call  it  what  you  will.  He 
was  intellectual,  self-sufficient;  over  thirty  years  of 
individual  experience  had  toughened  his  power  of  re 
sistance;  he  was  one  of  the  most  doggedly  self-controlled 
men  that  I  have  ever  known;  yet  It  caught  him,  made 
him  fast,  and  drew  him;  left  him  not  a  free  agent,  did  Its 
will  on  him!  Its  claiming  Brett  Paxton  and  Carstairs 
was  only  a  bagatelle  for  It,  after  It  had  taken  him! 
Furthermore,  there  was  the  psyschological  effect,  of  his 
taking,  on  Paxton  and  Carstairs!  That  clinched  It, 
stopped  any  doubt  they  had  left,  took  their  hope.  Al 
ready  lacking  Chadwell's  power  of  resistance,  they  straight 
way  lost  power  to  try.  All  the  worst  sides  of  their 
life  here  haunted  them;  their  memory  of  their  knocks 
put  them  still  lower;  they'd  no  ties  to  resort  to;  owed 
every  one;  could  never  get  back;  might  be  called  by  It 
any  moment;  asked  themselves  what  they  had  to  live 
for;  what  the  use  was  of  struggling.  I  say,  they  must 
have  figured  it  out  so!" 

"What  if  they  did?"  Greg  broke  in  bitterly  impatient. 
"It  would  have  got  them  anyway !" 


IN  RECOGNITION  OF  TRUTH        171 

"I  know  that,"  the  big  man  admitted;  "but  what  I'm 
coming  to  — 

"For  God's  sake  reach  it!  What  are  you  coming 
to?" 

"To  the  fact  that,  though  It  would  have  hit  them 
anyway,  they  made  It  come  sooner  by  doing  what 
they  did." 

Greg  laughed  in  reckless  derision.  "How  much  longer 
do  you  fancy  they'd  have  lived?  And,  even  supposing 
you're  right  in  your  crazy  theory,  what  has  it  to  do  with 
us?" 

"This,"  said  the  big  man:  "There's  going  to  be 
no  morbid  wooing  of  Death  in  your  case:  you're  going  to 
stay  here  with  me." 

"Live  with  you?" 

"Exactly  that.  Not  as  a  prisoner.  Don't  glare  so, 
or  misunderstand  my  motive.  It's  for  our  common 
safety:  I'm  going  to  take  care  of  you  so  that  you'll  take 
care  of  me" 

"But  my  work!  I  mean  at  the  consulate.  Every 
pound  I  get  comes  from  there!" 

"I  know  that,  and  I've  taken  measures  to  meet 
it." 

Greg  wheeled  on  him,  as  if  struck.  "By  heaven, 
Ormsby,  this  is  too  much!  I  know  we're  both  doomed. 

But  this "  His  face  had  set.  He  had  half  risen,  as 

if,  in  his  wild  rage,  he  were  about  to  hurl  himself  at  the 
other  vast  and  powerful  as  he  was.  Then,  his  shoulders 
slumped,  his  strength  sapped,  instead  of  built  up,  by  his 
passion.  He  sank  weakly  back,  though  his  eyes  did  not 
waver. 


172  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

"You  can't  think ?" 

"Yet  I  do  think,"  the  big  man  went  on  implacably, 
"for  I  know  it's  the  only  thing  to  do.  Don't  glare  at 
me,  I  tell  you.  There's  nothing  else  for  us.  Call  it 
your  safety  and  Miss  Netherby's.  Yes,  I  know  I  ought 
not  to  have  said  that,  but  you  made  me.  It's  this  way: 
if  you  go  on,  as  you  did  in  the  old  life,  your  poverty 
and  powerlessness'll  be  close  to  you  as  your  skin, 
and  you'll  be  as  morbid  and  black-melancholy  as  Car- 
stairs  and  Paxton  were.  You'll  not  be  giving  yourself  a 
chance!" 

"Chance?"  Bradbroke  echoed.  "Can  you  still  speak 
of  the  thing  as  'chance'?  " 

"Yes,  because,  for  my  own  sanity,  I  must,"  said  the 
big  man.  "Call  it  a  delusion,  if  you  will,  and  I  won't 
contradict  you.  But,  having  said  that,  hear  me  out. 
I'm  going  to  have  you  here  with  me.  I'm  going  to  look 
after  you.  You'll  never  go  to  the  consulate  again,  except, 
perhaps,  as  a  guest  at  a  dinner.  I'll  double  what  salary 
you'd  ever  have  got  there  in  a  thousand  years.  For 
God's  sake,  get  that  look  off  your  face:  all  any  one'll 
ever  know  is  that  you  and  I  are  partners!" 

"Partners!"  Greg  broke  in;  "partners  in  the  most 
cursed  partnership  that  was  ever  held!" 

"Right,"  the  big  man  admitted;  "but  I  mean  the  busi 
ness  I'll  open  in  Durban  to-day:  you  and  I  are  going  to 
speculate  in  Australian  wools.  Don't  look  so  incredulous, 
or  think  it  won't  look  all  right!  It  will.  I'll  be  ample 
protection.  Durban  '11  expect  you  to  make  money,  for 
you'll  be  associated  with  me,  the  'Human  Mint,'  the 
'Money  Making  Machine.'"  He  spun  the  nicknames  off 


IN  RECOGNITION  OF  TRUTH        173 

without  bitterness,  for  he  was  past  bitterness  for  such 
trivialities. 

"About  the  salary:  it'll  be,  in  your  money,  £50  a 
month." 

"A  month?"     The  words  came  in  spite  of  him. 

"Only  that  at  first,  for  you  won't  be  worth  more,  not 
knowing  the  business.  But  you'll  catch  on  in  no  time. 
I'll  coach  you,  for  I'll  need  your  help  just  as  soon  as  you 
can  help.  Then,  I'll  pay  you  more  and  more.  Now 
you'd  better  go  over  and  tell  the  Netherbys." 

At  the  words,  Bradbroke  turned  on  him.  "You  think 
I  can  lie  to " 

" Lie?  "  the  big  man  interrupted !  "  Haven't  we  passed 
that,  Greg?" 

"Not  to  her,"  Bradbroke  broke  out.  "I'd  rather  go 
to  Jem  and  Brett  Paxton  and  Chadwell  and  Carstairs. 
Yes,  and  she'd  rather  I  would  than  have  us  both  in  pay 
to  you!" 

"Ask  her,  and  see  what  she  says.  No,  Greg,"  as  the 
boy  turned  away,  "don't  take  it  like  this.  It's  the  only 
thing  left  for  us.  Tell  her  the  lie  of  our  partnership, 
if  it's  a  lie  to  you,  and  don't  be  hurt  by  her  happiness. 
She's  only  a  girl,  and  you  know  how  much  happiness 
anything  in  this  world  can  give  her  after  It  has  come  to 
you?"  He  waited,  then  went  on:  "Tell  her,  and  let 
her  be  glad  while  she  can  be.  You've  told  me  what  these 
years  have  been  to  both  of  you." 

For  a  long  moment  Bradbroke  leaned  back  on  the 
table,  seemingly  lifeless.  Then  he  slowly  inclined  his 
head.  "We'll  tell  them,  then.  As  you  say  —  they'll 
be  glad  to  —  know." 


174  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

But  the  big  man  shook  his  head  absently.  Suddenly  a 
great  weariness  had  come  on  him. 

"No,  Greg,  I'm  not  —  going." 

Greg  hesitated,  then  went  to  the  doorway.  "I'll  be 
back  when  I  get  through." 

Then  he  went  slowly  down  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER  XX 

IMPORTERS  AND  EXPORTERS  OF  AUSTRA 
LIAN  WOOLS 

OVERCOME  as  he  was  with  that  sudden  weariness, 
he  felt  that  it  must  be  bedtime;  yet  his  watch, 
which  he  found  himself  staring  at,  gave  him 
swift  denial.  But  his  limbs  were  lead,  and,  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  he  undressed  by  daylight  and 
went  to  bed.  He  must  sleep!  Madness  lay  in  wake- 
fulness  ! 

For  what  seemed  a  very  long  time  to  him,  he  lay  wide- 
eyed  in  the  darkness,  induced  by  his  exclusion  of  the 
day  and  his  sealing  of  his  lids.  Sleep  seemed  world-wide 
from  him.  He  could  hear  Greg  saying  to  the  Netherbys, 
"I've  got  something  big  to  tell  you:  something's  hap 
pened!" 

And  they  would  beg  him  to  tell  it.  Then,  Greg  would 
tell.  . 

That  was  the  way  it  was  going  to  be.  To  the  big  man, 
picturing  it  out,  it  seemed  very  simple,  almost  childish. 
But  his  hands  locked.  Could  Greg  make  his  deception 
plausible?  Yes,  for  it  required  but  poor  acting  to  de 
ceive,  with  a  lie  of  good  news,  people  so  hungry  for  good 
news.  And  Greg  could  act.  Greg  could  act!  He  had 
never  seen  Greg's  equal  in  private  theatricals.  That 
was  one  piece  of  good  luck,  anyway:  Greg  could  make 

175 


176  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

it  look  like  the  real  thing.  Greg  would  get  it  over.  But 
if  only  he  could  sleep! 

He  moved  on  the  bed.  How  tense  he  was!  He  felt 
his  arms  and  legs,  doing  it  cautiously  in  order  not  to 
surprise  them  into  hiding  their  real  and  blameworthy 
condition.  And  his  caution  served:  he  had  surprised 
them :  they  were  as  hard  as  wood.  He  sat  up,  and  shook 
his  head:  this  wouldn't  do!  It  wouldn't  do  at  all!  He 
must  relax  them.  No  one  could  sleep  like  that!  He 
remembered  how  Sterret,  the  old  Varsity  coach,  had 
come  into  their  rooms  in  freshman  year,  at  Red  Top,  and 
warned  them,  one  night,  to  relax,  and  showed  them  how. 
Good,  old,  big-hearted,  cranky  Sterret!  What  blessed 
days  those  had  been,  and  what  a  dear  old  chap  Sterret 
was!  He'd  seen  him,  not  six  months  back,  not  three, 
by  heaven !  in  Boston.  Sterret  had  been  in  '84,  may  even 
have  been  before  that,  but  he  was  such  a  corker  and  had 
kept  himself  so  fit  he  didn't  look  half  as  old  as  that! 

He'd  relax,  let  his  muscles  go  flabby.  That  was  better. 
Even  if  Greg  never  showed  up  again,  didn't  come  back 
at  all,  and  the  Thing  hit  him  right  off,  it  didn't  matter 
much.  Probably,  Greg  would  not  come  back.  He 
thought  he  could  see  Greg  telling  about  the  partnership 
until  the  crack  of  Doom,  to  the  Netherbys.  Greg  would 
keep  on,  and  never  get  through,  never  come  back,  and 
the  Thing  would  hit  him  before  it  crashed  on  Greg. 
But  that  didn't  matter  either.  For  he'd  found  her,  and 
loved  her,  and  lost  her.  She  was  an  English  violet.  He'd 
seen  that  at  once!  Sweet,  shy,  gentle,  and  innocent! 
There  had  been  a  song,  where  a  man  had  boasted  that 
the  girl  he  loved  was  like  a  red,  red  rose.  How  could  a 


IMPORTERS  AND  EXPORTERS   177 

man  do  that?  She  was  like  an  English  violet.  And  he 
was  very  grateful  for  it.  There  was  such  a  world  of 
difference!  He  had  been  afraid  of  frightening  her,  and 
the  fear  had  been  to  him  a  glory  all  his  own.  That 
first  evening,  and  the  next  time  he  had  seen  her;  and  the 
next,  and  every  one  of  them.  How  wonderful  she  was! 

If  only  once  he  could  have  told  her He  must  never 

see  her  again,  but  he  had  touched  her  hand.  .  .  . 

A  hand  fell  on  his  shoulder.  Greg  was  bending  over 
him,  with  a  white  and  frightened  face. 

"Ormsby!"  he  cried  out.  "Ormsby,  forgive  me?" 
he  begged.  "I  swear  you  were  smiling  as  you  slept." 

"Slept?"     The  big  man  was  looking  about  him. 

"Yes,"  Greg  said.     "It's  four  o'clock." 

The  American  heard,  then  let  his  head  fall  back. 
"Why  did  you  wake  me?  For  I've  dreamed  as  no  man 
has  ever  dreamed." 

"Dreamed?"  The  boy,  sitting  on  the  side  of  the  bed, 
waited,  wondering. 

For  the  big-boned  face  had  lost  the  lines  which  had 
aged  it;  its  steady  tones  had  come  back;  the  cheeks  had 
filled  again;  the  deep  eyes  were  marvellously,  incredibly 
clear  in  their  glance.  So  might  a  man  look,  who  never 
in  his  life  had  once  been  tired. 

Greg  nodded,  unconvinced,  yet  believing.  "I  suppose 
it's  your  'condition,'  always  exercising,"  he  said  slowly, 

trying  to  square  his  thin  shoulders;  "but "  His 

shoulders  sagged  again.  "I  don't  know." 

And  the  big  man  turned  half  away  from  him,  to  hide 
his  lasting  gratitude  for  the  blessed,  healing  glory  of  his 
Dream. 


178  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

"You'd  best  dress,"  Bradbroke  said  at  last.  However 
altered  the  other  was,  Greg's  face  was  still  white  and 
haggard.  "You'd  best  get  up,  I  think." 

"Yes,  I've  got  to  get  downtown,  and  set  them  working 
on  the  offices."  The  big  man  was  clear  of  the  bed  while 
he  spoke. 

"  It's  not  that,"  Bradbroke  replied,  absently.  "  They're 
coming  for  us,  in  half  an  hour,  with  the  gharry."  He 
glanced  at  his  watch.  "In  twenty-five  minutes.  Anne 
made  me,"  he  said.  He  had  parted  the  curtains,  but  kept 
oddly  away  from  the  light.  "Said  she'd  got  to  see  you. 
So  did  Miss  Langmaid.  She  was  the  first  to  talk  of  it. 

I What  could  I  do,  Ormsby?  Anne  —  all  of  them. 

They  think  the  world's  made  over  new.  Don't  you  see?" 

The  big  man  stopped  his  towel  in  mid  swing.  "The 
partnership,  you  mean?" 

"No,  the  fifty  a  month."  The  boy  let  himself  slowly 
down  on  the  bed. 

Fifty  pounds  a  month!  Had  Greg  been  so  in  need 
that  they  meant  that  to  him?  Fifty  pounds  a  month! 
Their  prospect  told  what  their  lack  had  been,  the  in 
effectiveness  of  his  struggles;  only  South  Africa  for  him, 
never  again  England;  and,  through  all,  and  in  all,  the 
building  bitterness  of  her  who  should  have  been  his  com 
forter,  but  was  to  him  and  to  those  others,  whose  lives 
touched  hers,  ever  and  only  what  the  big  man  had  seen 
her  .  .  .  an  uneasy  factor  in  South  Africa! 

"Greg,"  said  the  big  man,  when  at  last  he  stood 
dressed,  "can't  you  let  me  out  of  this?" 

Bradbroke  hauled  himself  to  his  feet.  "No,"  he  said. 
"Come!  There's  the  carriage  now." 


IMPORTERS  AND  EXPORTERS   179 

He  was  right.  Anne's  laughter  came  clearly,  musi 
cally. 

"Come  down,  you  truants!  We're  not  in  the  least 
patient!" 

"Coming,"  Greg  called  from  the  window.  "Ormsby," 
he  whispered  so  sibillantly  that  the  big  man  warned  with 
a  gesture,  "you've  got  to  do  the  talking,  remember.  I 
was  awake  when  you  put  that  rug  over  me  last  night. 
I've  been  awake  for  forty  hours,  and  you've  slept  and 
dreamed  for  six." 

Then  they  went  down  the  stairs  to  the  carriage,  which 
waited  them  in  the  reeling  street. 

He  had  told  himself  that  he  must  not  so  much  as  think 
of  her,  and,  as  for  seeing  her  —  he  hoped  that  he'd  some 
honour  left!  Yet,  he  entered  the  carriage,  and  took 
the  seat  by  her  as  if  the  gharry  had  been  theirs  alone. 
More  than  that,  he  seemed  to  have  gone  back  from  the 
world  of  the  Unreal  to  the  Real.  It  was  as  it  had  been 
on  that  first  evening.  All  was  safe  and  sane  again.  For 
the  sight  of  her,  her  brief  handclasp,  the  kindliness  in  her 
eyes  —  she  had  watched  him  as  he  turned  to  Anne  for 
a  moment  —  blest  and  steadied  him.  She  did  more  even 
than  that :  her  dearness  endeared  the  whole  world  to  him 
healed  his  soul. 

And  that  was  only  the  beginning.  For,  as  he  talked 
with  her,  it  was  with  a  new  and  very  sacred  confidence. 
From  time  to  time,  he  even  turned  from  her,  as  if  revelling 
in  the  strange  peace  which  had  come  to  him.  It  was  as 
if  his  old  fear  that  she  might,  after  all,  prove  evanescent, 
had  forever  gone.  She  was  here  with  him.  She  would 
be  here  always.  The  world  might  wag  as  it  would.  It 


180  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

could  not  effect  them,  could  not  take  her  away  from 
him:  she  was  his.  Yes,  she  was  his.  For  his  dream  had 
come  back,  that  glorious,  marvellous  dream,  in  which  Heaven 
had  showed  him  their  marriage,  her  his  wife!  Was  this 
only  a  new  form  of  madness.  He  wondered,  but  idly. 
After  all,  why  should  he  try,  or  care,  to  plumb  it?  Was 
it  not  enough  that  it  had  been  vouchsafed  to  him? 
For  it  had  been.  This  peace,  which  passed  all  under 
standing,  this  soul-stirring  rapture,  could  have  been 
brought  by  nothing  else!  He  had  heard  a  very  few  men, 
the  best  and  happiest  he  knew,  tell  of  it  reverently:  let 
come  what  might,  death  itself  the  next  instant,  they 
had  been  married!  So  each  had  spoken,  whose  marriage 
had  brought  utter  happiness. 

Yes,  she  was  his.  The  restlessness  of  his  bachelor 
days,  days  begun  with  such  elation  of  independence, 
were  over.  Suddenly,  all  had  changed.  The  world  was 
very  good  to  him.  Before,  he  had  thought  it  good;  but, 
then,  he  had  not  known.  Before,  he  had  driven  time, 
had  tried  to  catch  up  with  it.  Now,  the  days  should  be 
held  back.  Together,  they'd  hold  them  back.  That 
was  it:  they'd  do  it  together.  Always  together.  That 
was  all  of  everything!  He  smiled  through  the  mist  his 
joy  brought  to  his  eyes.  In  his  rapture,  his  hand  covered 
hers,  and  he  said : 

"Thank  God  for  it  all!"  His  hand  brought  hers  to 
his  lips.  Then,  he  buried  his  face  in  shaking  hands, 
for  she  was  saying: 

"You  have  done  what  you  promised:  you  have  given 
them  their  happiness!" 

She  had  turned  toward  him,  and  the  violet  eyes  held 


IMPORTERS  AND  EXPORTERS   181 

him,  blinded  him  with  their  utter  absence  of  reserve. 
She  allowed  him  the  perfect  vision:  the  violet  eyes  were 
wet.  "  They  will  be  married  and  go  back  in  a  few  months, 
Anne  says 

He  felt  the  universe  tilting. 

"And  now,  if  you  two  have  quite  gotten  through,  per 
haps  you'll  begin,  Mr.  Ormsby?"  laughed  Anne. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
WHERE  THE  TRUTH  HAD  NO  PLACE 

YES?"  he  asked,  grateful  that  what  he  should  say 
could  be  in  reply  to  Anne. 
"I  want  to  know  about  it,   all  about    it," 
explained  Miss  Netherby.     "Tell  me  everything  you've 
been  telling  Marian.     It  means  that,  to  be  happy,  you've 
got  to  work?" 

"Yes,"  he  said  with  an  effort,  though  she  was  help 
ing  him,  and  he  knew  it.  "Frankly  stated,  it  means 
that." 

"And  you're  not  content  to  let  Greg  idle,  either!" 
She  shook  her  head  in  mock  martyrdom.  "Poor  Greg, 
I  can  see  just  what  you'll  make  of  him!  But,  do  please 
transform  him  gradually,  and  then  only  part  way,  for 
I  like  him  so  much  as  he  is." 

It  was  the  girlish  —  not  the  bitter  —  Anne,  now,  and 
the  big  man  smiled,  "I  promise,"  praying  that  he 
achieved  verisimilitude. 

"But  you're  not  telling  me  any  more  than  he  did," 
she  objected.  "When  are  you  going  to  begin?" 

"At  once.  I've  practically  decided  on  the  offices.  It 
will  take  a  little  time  getting  them  up,  but  not  long.  As 
far  as  I  have  been  able  to  find,  Australian  wools  have  never 
been  tried  here  on  anything  but  a  very  small  scale.  We'll 
make  a  go  of  it."  He  had  kept  on  automatically,  after 

182 


TRUTH  HAD  NO  PLACE  183 

one  glance  had  told  him  that  Bradbroke  could  not  be 
looked  to  for  any  sort  of  assistance. 

"You'll  buy  and  sell?"  Evidently,  that  was  as  far 
as  Greg  had  gone,  or  been  able  to  go,  with  the  story. 
Miss  Netherby  hesitated. 

"Where  we  can  get  the  best  market,"  the  American 
came  to  her  rescue.  "England,  France,  Canada,  Ger 
many,  America.  Anywhere.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I 
don't  know  a  thing  about  this  market  yet,  myself." 

"Oh,  but  you  will,"  Anne  assured  him.  "And  you're 
going  to  have  Greg  live  with  you?" 

He  nodded.  "We've  talked  of  it,  ever  since  we  lived 
together  in  my  sheet-iron  shack  at  Kimberley.  And, 
now  I've  so  much  more  space  than  I  need  in  my  rooms 
here,  he's  going  to  take  pity  on  my  loneliness." 

He  knew  that  her  happiness  blinded  her,  but  he  felt 
that  even  she  must  see  what  heavy  work  he  was  making 
of  her  simple  question,  and  he  shut  his  lips  doggedly. 

"But  you  must  have  decided  all  this  very  suddenly?" 

"Yes.  Yes.  I  imagine  that  we  did."  Wouldn't  she 
ever  be  satisfied,  he  asked  himself.  And  wouldn't  Greg 
ever  help  him? 

He  saw  that  she  was  smiling,  and  welcomed  it  as  an 
answer  to  his  prayer.  Then,  her  smile  faded.  "Last 
night" — she  remembered  suddenly — "why,  only  last 
night,  you  two  and  Carstairs  were  going  off  for  a  vacation 
to  the  Cape."  Her  face  whitened  to  a  shade  ghastly  in 
comparison  to  her  former  radiance.  "Greg,"  she  de 
manded  hoarsely,  "did  Brett  really ?  " 

Greg  braced  himself.  The  big  man  saw  him,  but 
could  not  avoid  Anne's  harassing  eyes.  "Yes,  Miss 


184  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

Netherby,  he's  gone.  I  —  he  left  a  note.  It  seems  he'd 
had  it  in  mind  for  a  long  time.  Got  away  down,  discour 
aged,  you  know.  Greg  will  tell  you."  He'd  force  Greg 
to  speak! 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't,  Anne,"  Bradbroke  said  desper 
ately.  "It's  as  Ormsby  says:  there  was  a  note  left. 
Ormsby  burned  it  —  afterward;  but  we  all  saw  it,  Ormsby 
and  Carstairs  and  I.  I  don't  know  what  means  he  took, 
of  course.  Wasn't  a  trace.  But  he  undoubtedly  made 
sure." 

"The  poor  fellow!    The  poor,  poor  boy!" 

The  same  words  she  had  used  in  the  darkness,  last 
night,  at  the  gate.  The  same  deep,  simply-confessed 
sorrow,  so  much  more  telling  than  Anne's  verbal  grief. 
"There's  no  way  we  could  find  him?  It  seems  so  ter 
rible  to  think  of  his  being  found  by  any  one  but  his 
friends" 

The  big  man  looked  straight  before  him,  "Yes,  it  is 
terrible,"  he  said. 

"But,  Greg,"  Anne  was  saying,  half -hysterically, 
"what  can  be  done?  This  is  the  third  in  —  why,  hardly 
a  month!  First,  poor  little  Jem,  then  Hugh,  and  now 

Brett!  It's  too "  She  tensed  her  fingers  on  Greg's, 

as  she  went  on,  to  the  big  man:  "Right  here  in  this  little 

set  of  us,  almost  as  if  they You  don't  think  each 

knew  the  other  was  going?"  Her  words  piled  on  each 
other.  "You  don't  think  that?"  Her  hand  tightened 
almost  to  the  point  of  pain. 

"No,"  the  American  reassured  her.  "Not  the  least 
chance  of  that!  If  they  had,  they'd  have  told  me.  I'd 
have  known." 


TRUTH  HAD  NO  PLACE  185 

"And,  anyway,  7  would,"  Greg  hurried  in  with.  "You 
know  how  close  we  were?  Then,  too,  Eraser's  was 
something  about  his  heart.  I  don't  know  just  what; 
but  I'm  practically  sure  of  it.  I  didn't  say  so,  not  even 
to  Hammerstone." 

"Doctor  Hammerstone?"  Anne  demanded  wildly.  "I 
didn't  know  that  Hammerstone ' 

The  American  set  his  teeth. 

Greg  breathed  audibly.  "I  don't  mean  that.  I 
mean  Hammerstone  had  looked  Jem  over,  when  he  first 
came  out.  This  isn't  known,  generally.  I  have  your 
word?"  He  swept  them  with  stern,  hard  eyes.  "Beg 
your  pardon,  all  'round,  of  course,  but  had  to  make  sure. 
Not  a  word  of  it  must  get  out.  But  Jem  did  have  a 
weak  heart,  and  probably  that 

"Of  course,"  interposed  the  big  man.  If  Greg  would 
not  stop  of  his  own  choice,  he  must  be  ridden  off  from  his 
topic  for  he  was  heaping  one  bit  of  damaging  evidence 
on  another. 

"  Of  course.  I  supposed,  though,  that  that  was  gener 
ally  known.  It  took  his  courage,  drove  him  away  from 
here,  from  the  people  who  knew  him,  made  him  a  wan 
derer.  Heaven  help  the  poor,  mistaken  lad.  Chadwell's 
case  was  different,  and  much  clearer,  in  a  way:  sheer, 
fatal  heroism." 

Greg  was  still  looking  straight  before  him,  as  he  had 
been  doing  when  the  American  had  cut  him  off  in  mid- 
spring.  But  his  face  showed  his  relief.  "Fatal  heroism," 
he  said.  "Just  that!" 

"But  Brett,"  Anne  began  again;  "you  haven't  said 
about  him." 


186  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

Ormsby  leaned  swiftly  closer  to  the  girl  at  his  side: 

"Speak  to  her,  please.  Anything  you  can  to  distract 
her  or  reassure  her.  If  she  could  be  persuaded  to  go 
home,  I  mean  her  own  home,  here " 

He  was  doing  his  best  at  naturalness;  but  fear  held 
him,  his  fear  that,  in  the  next  breath,  Anne  would  ask 
about  Carstairs! 

The  eyes  into  which  he  looked  did  not  waver,  though 
the  violet  deepened,  and  the  rare  colour  failed  in  the 
perfect  face.  Then,  she  laid  her  hand  on  one  of  Anne's 
bent  shoulders. 

"Anne,"  she  said,  gently,  "I'm  quite  tired  out.  Will 
you  let  Greg  drive  us  home?" 

At  her  words,  Greg  threw  the  horses  about.  "By 
Jove!"  he  said,  with  a  laugh  at  which  the  big  man  mar 
velled  and  blest  him,  "we've  all  of  us  earned  a  vacation, 
and,  if  not  that,  tea.  And,  remember,  Anne,  I'm  no 
longer  an  idler.  From  now  on,  I'm  a  money-making 
machine." 

After  that  beginning,  Greg  did  not  falter.  Through  the 
drive  back,  he  allowed  hardly  a  word  from  any  one  of 
them.  Something,  genius,  almost,  the  big  man  thought, 
inspired  his  rapid  sallies.  The  talk  ran  away  and  away 
and  still  farther  away  from  Jem  and  Chadwell  and  the 
singer  and  Carstairs. 

Nor  did  he  once  mention  England.  It  was  all  South 
Africa,  as  on  that  first  evening.  So  that,  before  they 
had  entered  the  long  drive,  which  wound  in  and  out  among 
the  amatingula  hedges,  the  big  man's  fear  had  gone.  Of 
course,  he  could  not  undeceive  the  girl  at  his  side:  he 
must  let  her  go  on  drawing  all  the  joy  she  could  from  her 


TRUTH  HAD  NO  PLACE  187 

thought  of  Anne's  nearing  marriage.  But  Anne  and 
Greg  could  never  marry,  now.  Not  after  this,  not  after 
the  proven  effectiveness  of  the  prophecy!  It  was  not  to 
be  thought  of.  And  Greg  would  know  it.  He  was  too 
loyal  to  Anne,  loved  her  too  much,  to  marry  after  this.  It 
would  be  woe  to  him  to  hear  what,  in  the  natural  course 
of  events,  Anne  would  soon  begin  to  say  of  their  marriage. 
But  the  boy  would  stand  firm. 

The  conviction  clung  to  him,  as  they  entered  the  house, 
and  his  eyes  followed  Greg,  who,  acting  under  habit,  was 
preparing  the  tea  himself.  Again  and  again,  he  applauded 
Bradbroke's  courage,  his  nerve-control,  his  power  of 
dissimulation.  At  the  moment,  Greg  was  arguing  a 
triviality  with  Anne,  and  the  girl's  smile  —  she  was 
quite  restored  now  —  was  not  more  radiant  than  the 
man's.  And  the  big  man,  studying  them,  wondered  how 
many  men,  out  of  all  that  he  knew,  could  smile  that  way, 
in  that  presence,  faced  by  one  one-hundredth  part  of 
what  confronted  Greg. 

"Not  one,"  said  the  big  man  to  himself.     "Not  one!" 

He  rose  from  his  chair,  to  join  them,  wondering  if  she 

were  not  soon  coming  down  again,  and  still  praying  that 

no  one  remembered  to  ask,  or  to  suggest  sending,  for 

Carstairs. 

She  came.  The  Netherbys  had  not  too  many  servants. 
She  had  been  making  coffee.  He  wondered  how  she  had 
realized,  or,  realizing,  remembered  at  such  a  time  that, 
American  that  he  was,  he  preferred  it  to  the  English  tea. 
He  set  it  down  as  another  of  her  wonders. 

"Mr.  Ormsby,"  her  voice  was  saying,  "you  look  as 
you  did  there,  last  night,  at  the  gate.  Won't  you  let 


188  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

me ?  "  Unconsciously  her  hand  had  gone  out.  How 

frank  and  true  she  was!  That  he  was  deceiving  her, 
must  continue  to  cut  him  with  a  keenness  all  its  own. 
He  rose  to  his  feet,  his  eyes  on  that  small,  soft  hand. 

"If  I  could  tell  you "  Her  wonderful  eyes  held 

him.  "If  ever  I  can "  he  said  dully.  Then,  "If 

I  stay  here,  I  shall  do  what  I  must  not  do." 

"When  you  can,  you  will  tell  me?"  Her  voice  was  the 
lowest  whisper. 

"When  I  can."  He  took  her  hand  for  one  moment. 
For  one  moment,  looked  down  at  her.  Then,  after  a 
word  with  Greg  and  Anne,  he  went  down  the  steps. 

"To  the  offices,"  he  had  thrown  back  over  his  shoulder. 
But,  though  he  had  spoken  to  Greg,  his  eyes  had  gone 
to  Her,  to  the  hand  which  she  raised  to  him  —  the  hand 
which  he  had  kissed. 


CHAPTER  XXII 
THE  VICTOR  AND  THE  SPOILS 

IT  WAS  done.     Right  or  wrong,  it  was  done,  he  told 
himself  as  he  descended  the  drive  and  came  out 
upon  the  street.     Having  owned  the  partnership, 
neither  he  nor  Greg  could  draw  back.     They  were  com 
mitted  to  it  and  to  its  results.     The  offices,  now,  and  to 
buy  up  the  best  buyer  in  Natal!     The  engagement  of 
the  market  would  not  be  difficult  for  him.     Markets  were 
old  friends  of  his. 

He  got  the  offices  and  the  buyer.  Money  would  do 
much  in  Durban,  and  an  abundance  worked  miracles. 
Buyer  and  offices  were  ready  for  the  big  man  by  the 
middle  of  the  week.  And,  by  Thursday  morning,  he 
was  at  his  desk,  cabling,  and  sending  telegrams.  He  was 
busy  again,  and  that  meant  rest  to  him,  since  occupa 
tion  was  always  rest  to  his  restless  yet  unhurried  mind. 
He  was  back  in  the  harness.  As  much  as  he  ever  could 
have,  again,  he  had  his  old  point-of-view  back.  And 
sometimes  —  yes,  for  as  much  as  half  an  hour  at  a 
stretch  —  he  could  keep  his  thoughts  excludingly 
on  his  work.  And  if,  at  the  end  of  that  half  hour, 
an  oval  face,  rare,  and  wonderful  to  him,  smiled  up 
at  him  from  the  pages  or  papers  he  studied,  it  was 
only  to  smile  her  approval  of  the  course  which  he  had 
made  his  own. 

189 


190  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

He  marvelled  at  the  clearness  with  which  he  visualized 
her.  Sometimes,  in  these  moments  of  hallowed,  unin- 
fringed  communion,  he  felt  her  so  near  that  he  dared 
hardly  admit  his  earlier  thoughts.  Then,  he  would  seize 
his  pen,  or  bend  lower  over  his  tables  and  lists,  waiting 
for  the  time  when  she  should  come  again.  She  would 
come.  No  matter  where  the  Fates  drove  him  as  Its 
plaything,  she  would  come  to  him,  up  to,  yes,  and  through, 
the  last  moment  that  he  should  live. 

And  if,  at  other  times,  his  eyes  saw  the*  white  face  of 
young  Jem  Fraser,  his  limp  body  swung  in  the  strong 
arms  of  impassive  Hammerstone,  Hugh  Chadwell,  grave, 
self-contained  and  sombre,  as  on  the  evening  of  that 
last  rehearsal,  the  last  evening  that  any  of  them  had 
seen  him  alive,  their  faces,  and  that  of  the  rag-nerved 
singer,  and  Carstairs',  with  desperation  hidden  with 
greater  skill,  he  met  their  stares  calmly,  for,  already,  he 
held  himself  one  with  them. 

Only  one  of  the  spirits  which  visited  him  seemed  un 
aware  of  him,  and  that  the  dark  Fiend  who  had  pro 
nounced  his  doom.  The  half -human  face  and  form  of 
the  barbaric  prophet!  Where  was  he  now?  Had  he 
gone  back,  for  a  period,  to  the  Shades  which  had  sired 
him?  Did  he  still  live?  Had  he  ever  lived?  Had  not 
his  deadly  prophecy  been  the  dictum  of  the  dead?  The 
big  man  faced  him,  but  felt  his  blood  chill  at  that  aspect. 
Yes,  the  cloud  had  not  lifted;  the  curse  was  on  him,  more 
heavily  with  every  hour.  Now,  he  expected  no  peace  from 
it,  just  as,  long  ago,  he  had  abandoned  hope  that  it 
might  pass  from  him.  And  he  was  very  glad  that,  since 
it  was  unescapable,  it  was  omnipresent.  He  required 


THE  VICTOR  AND  THE  SPOILS      191 

that  continuous  reminder  for  the  controlling  of  his  heart 
and  the  leashing  of  his  tongue. 

And  so  it  was  with  him.  Day  in,  day  out,  he  went  to 
his  offices  on  West  Street.  Day  in,  day  out,  he  com 
muned  with  Her  there,  and  faced  the  others  manfully. 
Each  night  Greg  went  with  him  to  the  rooms  which  now 
seemed  to  have  been  theirs  always.  But,  though  soon 
adapted  again  to  the  Regent,  they  never  stayed  long 
there:  the  quiet  rooms  of  the  big  man,  where  Hackluytt 
and  Hammerstone  came  not,  were  more  acceptable. 

More  often,  they  went  to  the  Netherbys',  Greg  always 
to  talk  with  his  fiancee,  and  the  big  man  as  naturally 
to  go  to  the  girl  whom  he  held  barred  from  him  as  by 
a  barrier  aged  a  thousand  years. 

She  comprehended  his  muteness  at  least  sufficiently 
to  accept  his  long  silences.  And  he  marvelled  at  this. 
It  was  well  that  she  could  do  this,  for  he  could  do  nothing 
in  the  way  of  either  explanation  or  apology.  He  told 
himself  that  she  understood  him,  and  that  he  understood 
her.  Undoubtedly,  he  meant  by  that  that  they  were 
congenial,  and  that  he  was  finding  her  more  than  ever 
perfect.  It  is  probable  that  she  confessed  to  herself 
the  same  thoughts  of  him  —  at  least,  touching  their 
congeniality.  Neither  knew  how  much  closer  together 
they  were  coming.  Neither,  before,  had  known  what  it 
was  to  love. 

At  times,  he  would  tell  her  of  his  new  business,  of  the 
progress  Greg  was  making.  He  spoke,  with  all  the 
enthusiasm  of  which  he  was  capable,  of  the  work  of  Greg. 
The  truth  of  it  was,  he  was  trying  to  disabuse  himself 
of  a  growing  conviction  that  he  had  ill-read  Bradbroke  — 


192  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

and  he  was  having  very  hard  work  with  it.  He  was  trying 
to  persuade  himself  that  he  found  Greg  as  tractable  as 
ever;  that  Greg  was  doing  his  best;  that  Greg  was  meeting 
him  halfway!  And,  for  all  his  trying,  he  had  begun  to 
see  that  Greg  was  conceited,  petulant,  no  longer  boyish, 
but  childish;  that  Greg  was  not  a  magnetic  man,  the  least 
likable  of  the  five.  Greg  came  less  and  less  to  the  offices. 
.  .  .  He  had  been  but  a  silent  partner  at  best.  Now, 
he  was  fast  becoming  an  absent  one.  Moreover,  the  fact 
of  the  fifty  pounds  a  month  had  begun  to  rankle  —  not 
the  amount:  it  still  loomed  huge  to  him,  but  the  fact 
of  it. 

"You're  just  keeping  me  on,  Ormsby,"  he  would  fling 
out,  after  the  big  man  had  patiently  rectified  some  one 
of  his  glaring  errors.  "I'm  no  help  to  you,  worse  than 
none!"  Then,  he  would  brood  by  the  hour,  after  the 
manner  learned  from  Anne,  by  his  gloomy  silences  draw 
ing  closer  the  spectres  which  already  haunted  the  high- 
walled  rooms. 

And,  though  not  denying  what  Bradbroke  said  of  his 
business  blindness,  the  big  man  would  remind  him  that, 
after  all,  the  partnership  was  only  a  means,  a  trick. 

"So  what  do  we  care  whether  or  not  we  make  money 
by  it?  And,  even  so,  we're  making  it.  I  admit  it's 
sheer  luck" — he  really  believed  it — "but  we're  scoring 
steadily.  This,"  holding  out  a  cable  which  had  just 
come,  "means  fifty  thousand  if  it  means  a  cent.  Hooper 
&  Sons,  London.  You  know:  biggest  importers  of  them 
all!  And  this  is  only  a  feeler:  they're  trying  us  out. 
If  we  hit  them  right  with  this,  they'll  double  this 
order  inside  another  month.  Gad,  Greg,  our  filling 


THE  VICTOR  AND  THE  SPOILS      193 

with  the  only  grade  they  were  short  on,  was  sheer 
Providence!" 

"  Providence ! "  Greg  burst  out.  "  We  favoured  by  Provi 
dence  !  I  tell  you,  it's  all  right  for  you:  you've  a  right  to 
the  money.  You  earn  it !  All  I  do  is  cash  your  checks ! 
How  would  you  feel  in  my  place?  You're  all  they  talk 
of,  now:  how  you're  teaching  me  your  ways;  how  sure 
you  are,  and  how  sure  I'll  be!  All  of  'em,  even  Miss 
Langmaid,  are  pleased  as  if  I  were  their  baby  and  you 
were  teaching  me  to  read  or  walk !  By  Heaven !  I  wish 
I  were  back  at  the  consulate!" 

He  had  cried  that  out  before,  but  never  with  such  appeal 
as  now.  And  the  American  saw  rebellion  forming  in  the 
handsome  eyes. 

"Back  at  the  consulate!"  No,  he  wouldn't  allow  that! 
They  were  sitting  alone  in  the  big  man's  private  office 
and  he  turned  slowly  'round.  "I  don't  know,  after  all, 
that  your  position's  so  unreasonable.  I  see  what  you 
mean,  Greg,  and  I  guess  I'd  feel  the  same  way,  if  our 
positions  were  reversed.  Yes,  it  would  sting  me  to  cash 
your  checks." 

Greg  leaned  toward  him,  across  the  corner  of  the  desk 
on  which  he'd  been  resting  his  laxed  arms.  "Then  let 
me  out  of  this!  Let  me  go,  get  back!" 

"And  the  Netherbys?  Have  you  thought  of  them? 
They  know  you've  got  the  first  real  chance  you  ever  had 
in  your  life  and  they'll  wonder.  Of  course,  it's  your 
own  affair,  but  it'll  be  one  thing  more  that  can't  be  ex 
plained." 

Greg's  lips  opened,  then  closed.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
big  man's  impassiveness,  his  square-built,  impervious 


194  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

bulk,  his  tremendous  reach  and  spread,  which  checked 
Bradbroke. 

"Stick  along  with  me,"  the  big  man  went  on.  "We've 
been  going  only  a  month  with  the  business,  but  that's 
as  long  as  the  Thing  took  to  dispose  of  Fraser  and  Chad- 
well  and  Brett  Paxton  and  Carstairs,  and  It  hasn't  got 
us  yet.  So  stick  along,  I  say!  Since  the  checks  hurt  you, 
I'm  going  to  cut  them  off.  I'm  not  drawing  any  salary 
myself,  and  I  don't  see  why  you  should.  From  now  on, 
we'll  stand  on  the  partnership  division  alone.  Here's 
your  half  of  what  we  cleaned  up  on  that  deal  with  Hooper 
&  Sons."  He  shoved  the  amount  across  to  Greg. 

Greg  glared  at  it.    It  was  twenty-five  thousand  pounds. 

"And  now,"  the  big  man  went  on,  "instead  of  coming 
down  here  any  old  time,  and  mooning  around  like  a  wild 
man,  try  to  learn  this  business.  In  plain  English,  get 
down  to  work!  All  you've  done  so  far  is  lie  down. 
You've  not  even  tried!"" 

Greg  sprang  up.  This  was  rage.  No  longer  that 
strange  look  of  remorse. 

"Oh,  stop  acting,  and  get  down  to  work!  For  one 
thing  keep  office  hours!" 

"Acting?     You  say  I've  been  acting?"    Greg  was  livid. 

"Of  course!  Acting  the  part  of  the  young  man  who 
had  nothing  to  live  for,  doing  it  unconsciously.  But  you 
have  got  something  to  live  for:  as  long  as  this  Thing  holds 
off,  you've  got  a  partnership  half  of  a  business  that  has 
just  brought  you  in  twenty-five  thousand  pounds,  and 
will  bring  you  a  lot  more,  if  you'll  tend  the  shop."  The 
big  man  spoke  more  quietly  now:  he  had  won  his  point; 
stunned  Greg  with  the  amount  of  his  winnings,  taken 


THE  VICTOR  AND  THE  SPOILS      195 

from  his  mind  all  thought  of  retreating  into  the  consulate. 
He  went  on, 

"Now,  you  acrobat,  pick  up  that  stuff  and  come  over 
to  the  bank  with  me,  and  deposit  yours  while  I  stick  mine 
in.  Then,  having  had  our  row,  and  made  peace,  we'll 
have  a  drink  and  a  smoke."  He  stuck  his  pipe  into 
his  pocket,  as  he  got  up,  filling  it  there,  with  the  Boer 
tobacco,  "strong  and  loose  and  dry." 

It  swung  Greg.  The  bank.  Then,  the  drink  and  the 
smoke. 

"Now,  run  over  to  the  Netherbys',  and  tell  them,  and 
let  them  fill  you  up  with  tea  so  you  won't  be  worth  any 
thing  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  Take  the  afternoon  off. 
I'd  like  to,  but  I've  got  a  dozen  things  here  to  do." 

Greg  shook  his  head  obstinately.  "No,  I'll  stay  here 
and  help.  I  say,  Ormsby,  do  you  really  think  I've  got 
it  in  me  to  amount  to  anything  in  this?  "  His  arm  took  in 
the  offices. 

"You  bet  I  do,"  lied  the  big  man  instantly.  "All  you 
need  is  experience." 

And  it  was  not  until  an  hour  later,  that  they  both  set 
out  for  the  Netherbys',  Greg  buoyant  —  it  was  always  one 
extreme  or  the  other,  with  him  —  and  the  big  man  quiet, 
saying  over  and  over  to  himself:  "It  was  the  only  way  to 
cheer  him  up,  and  I  don't  really  believe  he  has  any  idea 
of  marrying  her." 

But  he  kept  his  eyes  straight  before  him.  The  point 
had  been  gotten  by,  but  for  how  long?  How  long  could 
he  keep  Greg  alive,  how  long  hold  him  back  from  what 
had  already  taken  the  other  four?  He  had  a  tremendous 
fortune,  by  this  time:  Falk  kept  reporting  the  same 


196  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

phenomenal  winnings  from  Kimberley;  Cheever,  back 
in  New  York,  cabled  the  same  of  the  Street  there,  and 
Boyden  &  Lawrence  did  the  same  thing  from  the  Boston 
end.  How  he'd  like  to  see  Dave  Lawrence  now !  There'd 
never  been  another  lad  like  him:  the  same  old  Dave! 
What  a  second  tenor  he'd  sung  on  their  quartette,  and 
what  a  seven  he'd  been  in  the  crew!  Gad,  it  would  be 
good  to  see  him  —  would  have  been  if  only  things  had 
broken  right.  The  thought  of  the  Bostonian,  the  frank 
est,  most  downright,  thoroughly  genuine  man  that  he 
could  remember  out  of  all  his  generation  —  except,  of 
course,  Tom  —  had  made  him  forget  that  he  was  scoring 
on  Australian  wools,  too.  Yes,  he  was  scoring  on  Aus 
tralian  wools,  too!  But  the  old  question  hung:  what  was 
going  to  be  the  end  of  it? 

"There  they  all  are!"  Greg  cried  out,  as  they  climbed 
the  drive,  and  turned  the  last  bend  in  it.  "  It'll  be  great 
news  for  them!" 

"Yes,"  said  the  big  man,  following  the  direction  of 
Greg's  eyes,  "there  she  is." 

Then  he  locked  his  lips. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
IN  THE  DIRECTION  OF  THE  TRUTH 

SHE  was  waiting  at  the  steps'  top,  never  before  so 
rarely  lovely,  never  so  utter  a  blessing  to  his  weary 
brain  and  eyes.  So  that  his  bow  to  Anne  was 
even  more  brief  than  usual,  a  thing  which  Anne  realized, 
for  a  smile  danced  to  the  edge  of  her  curving  lips.  In 
truth,  the  big  man's  attitude  toward  her  guest  delighted 
Anne  now  even  more  than  before.  Then,  she  turned  to 
Greg  again,  leaving  the  big  man  and  the  girl  to  them 
selves. 

She  looked  accusingly  at  him.  "  Something  is  the  matter, 
but  you  don't  tell  me  what  it  is  —  just  let  me  see  its  effect 
on  you!  And,"  she  went  on,  with  her  characteristic 
honesty  and  direct  friendliness,  "I  don't  think  it's  very 
nice  of  you." 

Suddenly,  his  eyes  had  caught  hers.  For  only  an 
instant,  then  he  looked  away. 

Without  knowing  why,  she  coloured  to  the  soft  curls 
which  framed  the  "widow's  peak."  Then,  "I'm  sorry  I 
said  that,"  she  faltered:  "I  didn't  mean  it  to  sound  that 

way.  Please  believe  that.  You  have  always  been " 

Her  eyes,  deep  and  wonderfully  clear,  did  not  waver.  A 
moment  before,  she  had  coloured  hotly.  Now,  she  as 
slowly  paled.  "And  so  it  hurts  me  to  see  you  troubled." 

He  looked  down  at  her.  "For  all  the  world  and  the 

197 


198  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

hereafter,  I  wouldn't  have  you  hurt,  or  know  what  being 
hurt  is.  But,  without  having  merited  it,  or  earned  it,  I 
believe,  I  have  met  with  great  trouble." 

"With  Greg?  I'm  so  sorry,  so  deeply  sorry."  Her 
eyes  were  full  of  pain. 

He  sank  back  into  the  chair  from  which  he  had  half- 
risen. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "with  Greg." 

All  unconsciously,  she  had  saved  him  an  open  confession 
of  what  she  had  come  to  be  to  him.  And  he  knew  that, 
to  continue  in  the  direction  she  had  given,  was  the  one  safe 
thing  for  him  to  do,  for  the  pauses  which  he  so  longed  to 
fill  with  the  fact  of  that  love  for  her,  were  breaking  him. 
"I  mean,"  he  forced  out,  "Greg  will  soon  stop  coming  to 
the  office  at  this  rate.  I  mean  that  he's  morbid,  melan 
choly;  he  gets  'down.' ' 

She  told  him.  "  Why  of  course:  with  all  this  —  I  mean 
these  terrible  things :  Jem  Fraser,  and  Mr.  Chadwell,  and 
Mr.  Paxton,  and  now  Mr.  Carstairs!" 

So  she  knew  of  Carstairs,  had  heard  the  rumour,  that 
is,  that  Carstairs  had  "bolted  the  country,"  as  Fraser 
did.  The  simplicity  and  control  with  which  she  showed 
him  her  knowledge,  showed  him  how  used  she  was  be 
coming  to  South  Africa.  He  marvelled  at  it,  and  it  hurt 
him.  It  was  another  thing  which  he  should  hold  against 
South  Africa.  He  knew  that  she  could  never  be  like 
Anne,  and  he  thanked  God  that  she  was  too  gentle  ever 
to  approach,  by  so  much  as  a  hair's  breadth,  the  point-of- 
view  of  Catherine  Hetheridge,  even  Catherine  Hetheridge, 
before  she  had  first  begun  to  respond  to  South  Africa,  that 
younger  Catherine,  who  then  had  not  ceased  hoping, 


IN  DIRECTION  OF  TRUTH  199 

who  had  not  so  much  as  dreamed  of  the  coming  service 
with  Madame  Zelig,  the  Jewess,  or  of  marriage  with 
Beaconsfield  Zelig,  the  Jew.  But  he  was  glad  of  what 
ever  kept  Catherine  from  cultivating  any  intimacy  with 
her.  They  never  met,  now.  The  rehearsals  had  stopped : 
all  idea  of  offering  the  play  had  been  abandoned  at  Chad- 
well's  death.  All  in  two  months!  Could  it  still  be  only 
two  months  since  Greg  had  led  him  southward  into 
Natal?  Only  two  months  since  that  night  he  had  met 
her,  at  the  Regent,  and  poor  Brett  had  tried  to  sing 
"Mandalay,"  and  that  vagabond  in  the  street  had 
claimed  them  as  brothers  and  sisters  in  exile?  Only  two 
months  since  he  and  this  slender  goddess  had  planned 
the  release  of  Anne  and  Greg,  outlining  their  plot  in 
such  unsuspecting  joyousness?  Two  months?  Two 
centuries! 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said.     "I  didn't  mean ' 

"No,"  she  said,  earnestly,  "for  I  have  been  thinking, 
too." 

It  was  wonderful  that,  even  yet,  they  failed  to  realize 
that  these  silences  were  bringing  them  closer  than  any 
confidences  could  have.  Strange  that,  at  least,  the  girl 
could  indulge  the  peace  which  their  proximity  gave  her, 
and  emerge  from  it  without  consciousness.  Or  was  it, 
perhaps,  that,  without  becoming  aware  of  it,  she  had 
passed,  as  the  man  had,  into  that  oneness  of  heart  which 
marriage  itself  could  hardly  have  added  to?  With  him, 
it  had  been  his  joy  in  her  and  the  joy  of  that  never-to-be- 
forgotten  dream.  With  her,  though  without  the  dream, 
it  had  been  the  same,  simple,  sacred  growth  of  an  ever 
lasting  and  perfect  love.  Like  him,  she  knew  that  the 


200  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

world  had  changed  for  her;  though,  unlike  his  revelation, 
the  transfiguration  had  been  so  untrammelled  that  she 
had  not  once  divined  its  cause.  If  she  had  been  older, 
or  if  she  had  been  less  perfectly  protected  through  her 
eighteen  years,  if  her  beauty  had  brought  her  worldli- 
ness But  none  of  these  things  had  been:  she  typi 
fied  the  divinest  gift  in  this  world  —  save  motherhood  — 
a  young  girl's  innocent  faith,  and  tender  gentleness. 

And  the  man  was  fit  for  marriage,  yes,  even  for  marriage 
with  such  as  she. 

For  all  her  unconsciousness  and  the  man's  muteness, 
he  had  sought  her,  and  she  had  received  him.  They 
were  far  more  betrothed  than  Greg  and  Anne,  who  pres 
ently  summoned  them  to  tea. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
GREG'S  MALADY 

HE  HAD  told  himself  that  Greg's  fever  for  work 
would  be  shortlived,  and,  before  the  end  of  the 
week,  he  saw  his  opinion  verified.  Unquestion 
ably,  Greg  made  the  effort;  but  his  endeavour  could  not 
alter  his  heritage.  Years  of  inertness,  legacy  of  a  long 
line  of  safely  conservative  ancestors,  were  showing  their 
effect.  The  offices  were  a  prison  to  him;  regular  atten 
dance  a  fruitless  penance;  and  the  whole  project  hostile, 
unsolvable,  and  —  too  late.  He  bent  over  his  desk  by 
the  hour,  his  eyes  set,  his  whole  body  actionless.  Then, 
he  would  walk  the  floor,  stare  from  one  after  another 
of  the  windows;  then  go  to  the  private  office  of  the  big 
man,  and,  after  gloomily  studying  his  absorption,  ask 
information  on  trivialities  explained  already  an  hundred 
times.  Day  after  day,  he  would  do  this,  each  day  more 
dissatisfied  and  valueless.  Until  the  American  would  try 
again  the  exposition  which  he  knew,  in  advance,  would 
result  only  in  new  boredom. 

Then,  from  being  merely  sullen,  Greg  became  openly 
cynical:  it  was  clear  now  that  nothing  could  be  done 
with  him  or  for  him!  What  was  the  use  of  trying? 
This  farce  with  Australian  wools !  He  didn't  know  whether 
the  fault  was  most  his  or  his  teacher's,  but  he  did  know 
he  couldn't  get  past  the  infant  class.  Better  do  the  whole 

201 


202  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

thing,  and  get  him  a  blackboard.  Perhaps,  then,  he 
could  make  something  out  of  these  schedules  and  per 
centages!  Best  thing  he  could  do  was  to  go  back  to  work 
he  could  manage.  He'd  never  fallen  down  so  at  the  con 
sulate!  The  twenty -five  thousand  from  Hooper  or  Cooper 
&  Sons  —  he  couldn't  be  sure  which,  but  he'd  give  it 
back. 

"  For  God's  sake,  brace  up ! "  growled  the  American.  "  A 
sick  dog  would  give  me  more  stimulus  and  companion 
ship!" 

"Then  get  one,"  came  the  impersonal  answer,  "and  let 
me  go  after  them!" 

The  big  man  found  this  strange  acceptance  more 
ominous  than  the  wildest  outburst.  So  had  Paxton,  the 
singer,  talked,  and  Carstairs,  the  last  time  he  had  seen 
them.  How  many  times  he  and  Greg  had  agreed  that 
they  should  have  been  warned  into  greater  watchful 
ness  by  that  quietude!  It  was  warning,  now,  to  the 
American. 

"By  Gad!"  he  cried,  as  naturally  as  he  could  affect,  "I 
was  trying  you  out,  to  see  how  far  you  would  go!  And 
now  I'm  going  to  give  you  some  straight  news:  we've  just 
cleaned  up  another  contract,  and  your  share'll  be  a  bit 
over  ten  thousand.  Not  so  much  as  Hooper  &  Son's,  but 
it  helps!  I've  stuck  it  in  the  bank  for  you.  Now,  go  out 
and  buy  something,  and  remember  you're  getting  rich." 

"Rich?  I  guess  I  am.  I'd  forgotten.  But,  I  say,  old 
man,  it's  too  late,  now.  Money  or  no  money :  what's  the 
use  of  it?"  He  shook  his  head.  "I  say,  Ormsby,  don't 
you  envy  them?" 

The  big  man  did  not  raise  his  eyes  from  the  schedule 


GREG'S  MALADY  203 

he  was  studying.  "Oh,  go  to  the  devil,"  he  said 
deliberately,  "and  let  me  work!" 

"Yes,  it's  just  as  they  said:  it's  all  right  for  you,  for 
you  know  you're  to  be  the  last." 

Ormsby  pushed  back  his  papers,  and  leaned  across  the 
desk. 

"I've  tried  to  convince  you,  and  now  I'm  going  to  do 
it,  for  all  time:  you  remember  the  afternoon  we  got  the 
word  Chadwell  had  gone?  You  remember  I  had  said 
we  must  stick  together,  in  Durban,  not  any  of  us  try  to 
get  away?  .  .  .  You  and  Carstairs  went  out,  then, 
to  overhaul  Paxton,  you'd  said.  But,  instead,  you  got 
the  first  train  you  could." 

"And,"  Greg  broke  in,  "you  saw  us  and.  ...  In 
God's  name,  why  didn't  you  let  us  go,  instead  of  coming 
after  us?" 

"I'm  coming  to  that,"  said  the  big  man  slowly: 
"my  meeting  you,  there,  was  accident,  the  last  thing 
I  looked  for:  I  didn't  know  you  and  Carstairs  were  on 
the  train''' 

"Didn't  come  after  us?    You  don't  mean ?' 

"Just  that:  after  all  I'd  said  about  fighting  the  thing 
out  here,  and  keeping  together,  I  was  trying  flight  myself. 
I  saw  you,  for  the  first,  just  before  the  train  began  to  slow 
down  for  Pietermaritzburg.  I  knew  you'd  discover  me, 
in  another  moment,  so  I  moved  first:  7  discovered  you. 
If  you  hadn't  taken  that  train,  I'd  have  gone  through  to 
Kimberley,  closed  things  up  there,  then  struck  overland 
for  the  coast." 

"And,"  Greg  took  up  the  narrative,  "by  this  time, 
you'd  have  been ' 


204  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

"Dead,"  completed  the  big  man,  "or  out  of  South 
Africa." 

Bradbroke  nodded.  "I  seem  to  be  your  evil  genius, 
for  first  I  get  you  into  this,  then  keep  you  from  getting 
out  of  it." 

"  On  the  contrary,  you  have  given  me  what  I  can  never 
make  up  to  you." 

"  /  have?  "  Greg  stared  at  him.  "  What,  in  God's  name? 
You're  mad  as  —  /  am,  but  I'd  like  to  know  what  you 
mean,  just  the  same!" 

The  big-boned  face  had  gone  suddenly  bloodless. 
"Never  mind,  now,  Greg."  His  lips  set,  for  suddenly  he 
had  realized  the  joy  it  would  be  to  him  to  tell  his  secret 
even  to  Greg.  But  the  realization  made  him  only  the 
more  self -watchful.  He  prayed  that  he  had  bred  no 
suspicion  in  the  other's  mind.  And,  to  sterilize  it,  if 
there  were  such,  he  employed  the  instant  for  what  it 
served  as  a  natural  opening.  "I've  just  had  a  tip  on 
Kimberley  to  risk  almost  your  honour  on.  I'm  going  to 
put  something  up  on  it,  and  I  suggest  you  stick  on  every 
thing  you've  got." 

Greg  flew  for  his  check-book.  "Here!"  He  dashed 
the  check  off.  "But  you'll  have  to  manage  it." 

"I  will,  this  time.  With  this  private  wire,  we  ought 
to  know  for  sure  in  forty  hours.  Maybe  sooner.  I'll  get 
at  it  now." 

"If  only  it  takes  hold  of  him  as  I've  seen  it  take  others," 
he  thought.  "And  the  best  way  to  get  him  started  is  to 
have  him  win  something  pretty  fair,  then  lose,  then  double 
and  win  again." 

It  proved  so.     That  first  venture,  "  managed"  by  the  big 


GREG'S  MALADY  205 

man,  brought  Greg  a  little  harvest.  The  second  cost 
him  about  what  he  had  won  on  the  first  one.  But,  from 
the  third,  he  reaped  a  grand  and  golden  store.  And  it 
was  a  new  Greg  now.  He'd  have  risked  all  he  had,  on 
the  next  venture,  if  the  American  had  not  interposed. 

"Don't  crowd  your  luck,"  he  warned.  "You'll  prob 
ably  get  cleaned,  if  you  do.  Best  thing  is  to  pull  out, 
now,  for  a  little,  and  buy  some  more  things.  You've  told 
everlastingly  about  what  you  used  to  have." 

Greg  bought.  First,  dogs  and  horses.  Then,  charac 
teristically,  whf t  he  referred  to  as  "the bills."  And  these 
must  have  been  far  heavier  than  he  had  owned  to,  for  he 
announced  that  his  pockets  were  empty  of  winnings,  in  a 
week.  And  with  the  emptiness  of  his  pockets  came  a 
return  of  the  depression  which  lately  had  spared  him. 

The  big  man  took  it  to  his  counsellor,  who  took  it  to 
Anne.  But  Greg's  cloud  did  not  lift. 

"But,  by  Heaven,  there's  the  market,"  the  American 
told  himself.  As  before,  he  sold  some  of  his  own 
"Kimberley"to  Greg. 

And,  again  as  before,  the  sun  shone  with  the  younger 
man.  Again,  Anne  was  radiant.  And  why  not?  The 
big  man  had  not  spared  his  own  holdings:  he  had  swung 
to  Greg  this  time,  a  good  seventy-five  thousand  pounds! 

On  the  day  that  the  papers  found  Greg's  new  winnings 
—  almost  before  he  himself  did  —  he  seemed  almost 
mad  with  elation.  He  couldn't  really  credit  it  even  yet, 
he  said.  But  it  was  not  from  any  lack  of  being  told  it  by 
his  friends  and  those  who  envied  him.  The  city  had  al 
ways  admired  him.  He  was  coming  into  his  own,  it  said. 

Greg  came  to  the  office  half  an  hour  late. 


206  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

"We're  getting  on!  And,  I  say,  I  gave  that  first 
twenty-five  thousand  to  Anne,  you  know.  You  thought 
I'd  blow  it  on  bills?  Not  I?  No  spendthrift  now!  No 
end  of  credit,  you  know.  You'd  be  surprised!"  He 
laughed  jubilantly.  "Eh,  what?" 

"What  did  you  say  about  Miss  Netherby?" 

Greg  shook  his  head  warningly  at  the  speaker.     "Get 

on  a  smile,  can't  you?     Imagine  something  agreeable,  for  a 

bit,  or  —  I  say,  what  is  it  Shakespeare,  wasn't  it?  says 

about  Brutus?      'That  day,  he  overcame  the  Nerveii.' 

No,  that's  not  it  at  all.     Shakespeare  said He  was 

pointing  to  Brutus,  that  is  Cassius I've  got  it:  he 

said: 

'Yond  Cassius  has  a  lean  and  hungry  look. 
'He  thinks  too  much.     Such  men  are  —  are ' 

I  say,  you  know,  old  chap,  I  don't  know  what  the  deuce 
he  did  say,  now!  Fowtry!  Got  it?"  he  cried,  before  the 
big  man  could  speak.  "He  said:  'are  dangerous.'  It 
took  Shakespeare !  He  knew  'em.  Awful  gift  to  have  — 
such  a  memory!  Calls  up  all  sorts  of  things!  You'd  be 
surprised." 

The  big  man  nodded  deliberately.  "Must  be  almost  a 
burden.  But  about  Miss  Netherby?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  to  be  sure.  She  wants  you  to  put  the  twenty- 
five  thousand  I  gave  her  right  back  in  Kimberley.  For 
her,  you  know.  You'll  do  it,  I  say,  old  chap?  " 

The  American  whirled  him  around.  "You  can't  mean 
you're  willing  to  let  her  risk  it?" 

"Don't  I?  Don't  we,  the  three  of  us,  Anne  and  I  and 
Miss  Langmaid?  Well,  rawther!  No  risk,  you  know: 
not  with  you  running  it !  Here  it  is." 


GREG'S  MALADY  207 

And  he  left  the  big  man  standing  motionless,  Anne 
Netherby's  check  for  twenty-five  thousand  pounds  in  his 
hand. 

For  what  could  he  do?  The  money  was  Anne's,  and 
to  refuse  to  act  for  her  was  impossible.  It  was  equally 
impossible  for  him  to  do  what  he  longed  to :  teach  Greg  a 
lesson,  and,  at  the  same  stroke,  lower  Anne's  potentiality 
by  having  every  pound  of  the  twenty-five  thousand  swept 
away.  No,  there  was  only  one  thing  to  do:  study  the 
market  as  he  had  never  done  before,  even  when  speculating 
for  himself  and  trying  to  make  it  sure,  without  impairing 
his  own  holdings  —  a  sacrifice  he  would  not  make  for  her, 
though  he  had  done  it  willingly  for  Greg !  Yes,  though  if 
he  saw  anything  slipping,  he'd  back  it  up,  he'd  have  to! 
with  his  own  "Kimberley,"  for,  f  it  lost  —  he  could  see 
Greg's  face,  when  the  news  came:  it  would  mean  such 
consciousness  of  disgrace  to  him  that  he'd  dash,  headlong, 
for  the  ultimate,  which,  at  moments  far  less  burdensome, 
he  so  envied  having  been  gained  by  the  other  four.  For, 
though  lifted  now  out  of  reach  of  that  tiger  of  gloom,  Greg 
was  never  safe  from  it:  let  him  sink  ever  so  little,  and  its 
exaction  would  be  sure.  And  once  that  —  The  big  man 
knew.  Cost  what  he  might,  Bradbroke  stood  between  It 
and  him.  Bradbroke  was  The  Man  Between,  and  he'd 
got  to  keep  him  on! 

It  was  after  such  revery,  followed  by  seemingly 
endless  hours  of  scrutiny  of  the  market,  that  the  big 
man  placed  Anne  Netherby's  twenty-five  thousand 
pounds. 

"Where?     Where?"  Greg  had  demanded. 

The  big  man  told  him,  and  Greg  bolted  away. 


208  THE  MAN   BETWEEN 

"Promised  I'd  keep  'em  posted,"  he  threw  back.  "I 
won't  be  long!" 

Then  they  waited. 

The  word  came.  It  was  a  victory,  amazing  even  to  the 
American;  another  one  of  those  unexpectedly  golden  smiles 
which  the  presiding  Deity  of  the  Market  seemed  pleased 
to  reserve  for  him.  He  received  it  mutely,  hardly  hear 
ing  Greg's  half-incoherent  cries.  It  was  true,  verified  at 
once  past  all  doubting.  Anne  had  won  very  heavily. 
For  the  rest  of  her  life,  she  would  never  know  money-need 
again. 

Her  delirious  joy  almost  frightened  the  big  man.  The 
hands  which  crushed  his,  the  instant  she  saw  him,  scorched. 
He  could  hardly  endure  her  eyes.  The  avalanche  of  her 
gratitude,  and  her  flood  of  hysteric  tears!  How  much 
more  acceptable  he  found  the  reserved,  quietly  told  happi 
ness  of  her  father  and  Lady  Netherby!  And,  richer  by 
far  than  all,  the  look  She  received  him  with.  The  English 
violet's  eyes  were  wet,  and  no  words  measured  her  mean 
ing,  but  she  gave  him  her  soft,  true  hand. 

Greg  had  stood  back,  watching  their  joy  with  mocking 
eyes.  Then,  he  went  across  to  the  American. 

"Now  my  secret,  old  chap:  I'm  a  winner  myself: 
when  you  told  me  where  you'd  put  Anne's,  I  went  in  on  it 
myself:  stuck  on  every  bally  pound!" 

For  a  moment  the  big  man  stood  like  a  statue,  then 
he  caught  Bradbroke's  hand. 

"I  congratulate  you,"  he  said.  His  smile  would  have 
amazed  them  if  they  could  have  seen  its  ingredients :  it  was 
&  surrender,  the  first  that  he  had  ever  made.  "I  believe 
I'm  tired,"  he  said  slowly.  Anne  and  Greg  and  Lord 


GREG'S  MALADY  209 

and  Lady  Netherby  had  instantly  gone  together;  the 
only  one  who  heard  him  was  the  one  to  whom,  of  all, 
he  spoke. 

She  was  standing  beside  him,  looking  up  anxiously  into 
the  big-boned  face. 

"  God  help  me,  I've  done  too  much,  for  they'll  marry 
now,"  he  breathed,  before  he  could  check  himself. 

Something  made  them  both  turn.  Greg  and  Anne  were 
approaching,  followed  by  the  others  in  a  chorus  of  ex 
clamations  :  "  You  people  think  you've  got  the  real  news, 
but  you  haven't,"  Greg  laughed.  "Miss  Langmaid, 
Ormsby,  old  chap,  let  me  present  you  to  my  wife:  Anne 
and  I  were  married  this  afternoon  at  four  o'clock!" 


CHAPTER  XXV 
FEAR 

IT  WAS  done.    He  had  given  his  stumbling  congrat 
ulations.     Only  once,  while  going  through  the  crazy 
questions  and  answers,  had  he  met  her  eyes,  as  she 
held  Anne  in  her  arms.     Then,  he  had  gone. 

For  he  had  had  to  go.  Not  that  he  might  steady  him 
self  from  the  revelation  of  Greg's  deceit;  sudden  as  that 
had  been,  it  was  not  what  had  driven  the  American.  It 
was  the  confession  he  had  read  in  the  violet  eyes,  their 
message  the  pinnacle  of  his  despair!  He  tried  to  tell  him 
self  that  he  had  seen  nothing.  He  reiterated  that  it  had 
been  only  his  own  love's  reflection.  He  had  deluded  him 
self,  lied  to  himself:  he  had  seen  nothing!  But  he  knew 
that  his  lie  was  truth.  He  must  see  her.  He  must 
never  see  her  again.  The  oath  he  had  taken,  the  self- 
control  he  had  vaunted,  the  power  of  will  he  had  boasted, 
the  manhood  he  had  affirmed  his  —  all  had  deserted  him. 
Where  could  he  take  this  Fear  of  his?  He  felt  no 
strength,  only  blank,  dull,  dumbing  weakness.  Where 
should  he  go?  Wherever  he  went,  he  knew  that  this  would 
go  with  him.  Already,  though  but  so  recent  a  possession, 
it  had  become  a  part  of  him.  He  knew  that  he  should 
stay  on  in  Durban.  He  could  consider  being  nowhere 
else,  now.  Now,  even  more  than  before,  Durban  spelled 
the  world  for  him.  He  should  stay  on.  He  should  keep 

210 


FEAR  211 

on  as  he  had  been  doing.  He  should  keep  up  the  busi 
ness.  He  should  keep  Greg  with  him.  Though  married, 
Greg  would  require  him,  for  the  cloud  would  settle  down 
again.  On  the  other  hand,  Greg's  position  toward  him 
now  seemed  altered,  no  longer  to  be  an  affair  of  his.  It 
startled  the  big  man  to  realize  how  distant  Greg  and  his 
fate  seemed  when  compared  with  this  which,  for  one  short 
moment,  he  had  surprised  in  her  eyes!  How  dared  he! 
What  right  had  he!  None,  and  he  knew  it.  But  he 
knew  what  he  had  seen  in  her  eyes. 

He  came  back  to  this,  let  his  thoughts  diverge,  however 
obediently.  He  came  back  and  back  to  it.  And,  with 
it,  other  things  came  to  him:  that  he  was  young,  and  fit 
for  marriage,  even  this  marriage  —  no  man  ever  could  be 
fit  for  this!  and  he  had  sought  it  as  Esau  his  father's 
blessing,  penitently  and  with  tears.  Now  it  awaited 
him  ...  a  reality  diviner  than  his  dreams!  He 

would  go  to  her  and  tell  her,  ask  her !  It  meant 

that  he  was  going  mad. 

Yet,  from  his  madness,  he  was  winning  a  great  under 
standing.  Of  Greg,  among  others:  while  Greg's  words 
were  falling,  he  had  sworn  to  paint  his  act  to  him,  reveal  to 
him  what  he  had  meted  out  to  Anne  —  widowhood  instead 
of  wifehood;  had  told  himself  that  he  should  listen  to  no 
attempt  at  extenuation,  no  excuse.  But  now,  though  he 
realized  that  he  should  never  feel  otherwise  toward  him, 
the  big  man  knew  that  he  should  never  loose  his  lips  to 
Greg. 

Now  that  Greg  and  Anne  had  married  past  any  recall 
ing,  he  should  accept  it.  Greg  would  probably  buy  a 
place  outside  of  town,  somewhere.  That  would  free  him 


THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

from  the  hated  supervision.  That  freedom  would  mean 
open  danger,  but  Greg  would  not  realize  it.  Or  it  might 
be  that  he  did  realize  it,  and  had  decided  to  face  it,  take 
his  happiness  while  it  lasted,  live  for  the  present.  Greg 
had  decided  that.  He  showed  it  by  his  frank  defiance. 

Well,  let  it  be  so.  Living  for  the  present  might  not  be 
so  wholly  beyond  Greg's  rights.  It  was  no  more  than 
many  others  did !  The  big  man  was  gaining  a  clearer  view 
of  many  things. 

Greg,  then,  had  decided  to  live  while  he  could;  in  some 
manner,  had  been  able  to  absent  the  fact  of  his  fate  up  to 
the  latest  moment  of  its  arrival.  He  had  decided  to  take 
all  that  the  Gods  had  given  him,  and  marriage  with  Anne 
had  been  a  part  of  it.  So  viewed,  his  act  seemed  less  mon 
strous.  It  dwindled  still  more  when  the  big  man  realized 
that  not  even  Greg's  own  happiness  in  the  marriage 
equalled  Anne's.  While  he  lived,  Greg  would  give  her  all 
she  could  wish  for.  The  thousands  and  hundreds  of  thou 
sands,  almost,  which  the  big  man  had  given  him  outright 
had  multiplied  into  an  unexpectedly  vast  aggregate.  Greg 
was  a  rich  man  now;  and,  at  his  death,  all  of  it  would  pass 
to  Anne.  They  could  not  go  back  to  England,  of  course. 
But  they  could  live  happily  as  they  would  in  Durban, 

until  Greg  went.  So  why  not ?  There  lay  the 

thought  again,  the  fear  and  the  danger;  why  not  do  as 
Greg  had  done?  The  danger  of  understanding  Greg's 
point  of -view,  as  the  big  man  knew  that  he  must  not  do, 
for  the  argument  found  an  irresistible  ally  in  his  love. 

He  had  been  wandering  on,  heedless  of  streets  and 
squares;  and,  looking  about  him,  now  for  the  first  time, 
he  swung  heavily  in  the  direction  in  which  his  offices  lay, 


FEAR  213 

for  work,  which  had  aided  him  in  lesser  crises,  might 
relieve  him  now. 

He  made  the  way  slowly.  How  far  he  had  wandered, 
in  his  self-questioning!  It  was  nearly  six,  a  good  hour, 
a  terrible  hour!  since  he  had  gone  from  the  Netherbys'. 

"Has  any  one  called  —  anything  come  in?"  he  asked  a 
clerk  as  he  entered.  He  knew  that  his  hope,  vague  as  it 
was,  was  part  of  his  fear  and  of  his  new  cowardice. 

"No,  sir.     Mr.  Bradbroke " 

"Here,"  Greg's  voice  called  from  the  big  man's  private 
room.  He  turned  there.  Greg  was  waiting  by  the  desk. 

"  Come  in  and  shut  the  door,"  he  said,  musically.  And, 
as  the  American  did  so,  "  Now,  if  you  say  so,  we'll  go  over 
it.  Give  it  to  me  straight,  and  get  it  through ! " 

The  big  man  met  the  languidly  defiant  eyes  quietly. 

"I've  said  all  I  have  to  say,  Greg,  except  just  one  thing: 
in  a  moment,  I'm  going  out  to  buy  the  Grainton  bungalow, 
just  back  of  the  Bluff,  and  have  it  put  in  order  double 
quick.  The  deed  will  be  made  out  at  once,  in  your  name. 
If  you've  no  objections,  you  may  consider  it  my  present 
to  the  bride." 

What  was  there  in  that  to  trouble  Greg?  Yet  the 
boy's  eyes  hurt  the  man  who  met  them.  What  was  it? 
"  Greg,"  he  said,  "  don't !  I  thought " 

Greg  was  leaning  against  him.  "  I  say,  you  know,  you 

mustn't.  It's  —  I  can't  let "  He  had  shrunk  away. 

"Not  after  what I've  told  you  I've  done  you  the 

worst  wrong  ever  done  a  man." 

The  big  man  laughed  quietly.  "You're  only  a  kid, 
Greg.  Get  your  hat  and  we'll  get  tiie  deed.  In  a  minute 
you'll  be  asking  me  to  come  and  live  with  you,  I  mean 


214  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

would  have;  and  I'd  have  accepted  and  bored  you  both 
to  death,  and  been  sent  home  in  disgrace.  Wouldn't 
have  minded  the  disgrace  as  much  as  the  being  sent 
home." 

Something,  probably  the  last  word,  threw  them  both 
back. 

Greg  paled.  "Ormsby,"  he  said,  self-reproachfully, 
"Ormsby,  I  ought  to  have  — 

The  broad  hand  went  out  to  him,  "  As  long  as  you ' 

He  began  again,  hastily:  "You'll  never  be  able  to  speak 
for  just  yourself  again.  From  now  on,  it'll  be  Anne  first, 
last,  and  all  the  time,  with  you.  So,"  with  an  effort'at  his 
banter  of  the  moment  before,  "don't  get  out  the  invita 
tion  until  you've  asked  your  wife." 

He  knew  that  Greg  had  not  meant  that;  but  it  was 
better  to  treat  it  that  way,  for  it  was  too  late  now  for 
Greg  to  look  behind.  "I  say,"  he  said,  when  the  deed 
was  drawn,  signed,  and  in  Greg's  hands,  "I'll  come  in 
often  to  see  you.  My  rooms'll  be  pretty  lonely  now." 
Lonely?  Suddenly  he  realized  how  lonely  they  would  be, 
and  he  changed  the  subject.  "Tell  Anne  I  hope  she'll 
like  the  place.  When  shall  you  move  in?"  He  nodded. 
"I'm  forgetting:  it's  not  ready  yet;  but  the  renovating 
and  the  rest  of  it  can't  take  long." 

"What  I  want  to  know  is,  how  you  knew  just  the  place 
for  us?"  Greg  spoke  mechanically. 

"Don't  know,"  said  the  big  man;  then,  unguardedly, 
"Probably  because  it  would  have  been  the  one  place  I'd 
have  picked  out  for  myself." 

"Would  have?"  Greg  came  a  step  nearer.  "That 
means  —  it  shows  what  you  think  of  me." 


FEAR  215 

"  If  I'd  been  in  your  place,  I'd  have  done  just  what  you 
have.  But,  you  see,  I'm  not  in  your  place  —  in  any 
way." 

"  Glad  you  said  that.     I  thought,  at  first 

"Don't  think,  Greg.  Instead,  run  and  tell  Mrs.  Brad- 
broke!  I'm  impatient  to  see  you  settled  there." 

"You're  not  half  so  impatient  as  I  am,"  Greg  called 
back,  as  he  closed  the  office  door,  to  which  they  had  gone 
to  put  the  deed  in  the  big  man's  safe.  "Come  along, 
soon!"  he  cried,  as  he  turned  in  the  direction  of  the 
Netherbys'. 

"And  I  will  go  there  and  see  them,"  the  big  man  was 
saying  aloud  in  his  loneliness,  "for  She'll  be  with  Lady 
Netherby,  and  Greg  and  Anne  will  be  at  the  bungalow  — 
alone."  He  had  remembered  that  he  must  never  see  her 
again. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
THE  ENGLISH  VIOLET 

BUT,  as  if  to  sap  the  big  man's  decision  not  to  see 
her  and  not  to  live  for  the  present,  came  to  him 
a  realization  immediate  and  indubitable:  that 
marriage  with  Anne  seemed  the  best  thing  in  the  world 
for  Greg.  Renovating  and  finishing  and  furnishing  had 
hardly  been  crowded  through  before  the  two  moved  in. 
And  house  and  grounds  bloomed  as  if  magic  lay  in  the 
touch  of  the  bride's  pretty  fingers.  The  bungalow  had 
been  admirable  before;  now,  it  was  the  very  home  of 
happiness.  It  was  as  if  she  had  poured  into  its  possi 
bilities  all  the  instinct  for  charm  and  domestic  allurement 
which  she  had  accumulated,  without  hope  of  fruition, 
through  the  long  and  hopeless  years;  and  her  pride  in  her 
handiwork,  the  glory  it  was  to  her,  spoke  in  each  room  and 
nook  as  an  actual  presence,  called  instantly  into  fullest 
life. 

Encouraged  by  the  big  man's  example,  Greg  filled  it 
with  all  that  they  had  ever  longed  for.  Durban's  shops 
at  last  confessed  limitations,  and  recourse  was  had  to  the 
Cape.  Still  other  orders  were  sent  to  England. 

It  was  at  the  end  of  the  second  week  of  its  new  occu 
pancy  that  the  big  man  first  went  to  the  bungalow.  To 
the  Netherbys'  he  could  not  go;  and  his  own  rooms  had 
become  intolerable!  When  he  gave  up  his  rickshaw,  and 

216 


THE  ENGLISH  VIOLET 

climbed  the  low  flight  of  steps  to  where  Greg  and  Anne 
waited  him,  he  felt  what  others  had  detailed  to  him :  that 
he  was  entering  not  only  a  charmingly  equipped  house, 
but  a  home.  And  Anne!  For  a  moment  his  wonder  at 
her  was  so  absolute  that  he  forgot  the  tragedy  beneath: 
charming  as  a  girl,  she  was  exquisite  as  a  bride  and  hos 
tess.  She  did  not  once  speak  of  his  gift  to  Greg  and  her 
self.  Hardly  once  —  except  at  that  one  moment  of  her 
discovery  of  her  sudden  wealth  —  had  she  recognized  his 
effective  services.  But  now  she  welcomed  him  with  an 
earnestness  which  confessed  all,  yet  did  not  embarrass 
him.  She  showed  the  homeless  man  what  a  home  could 
be  to  him. 

In  her  happiness  with  Greg  she  did  not  realize  her 
cruelty  in  the  disclosure:  that  he  visualized  a  home  in 
which  the  English  violet  would  welcome  him  when  the 
day's  work  was  done. 

For  he  was  very  domestic.  Like  most  men  who  have 
gone  the  world  over  in  bachelorhood,  he  had  come  to 
loathe  clubs,  except  for  an  evening  now  and  then.  The 
freedom  to  come  and  go  soon  had  come  to  possess  a  prison 
quality,  revealing  the  monotonous  round  of  which  it  was 
made  up.  Early  he  had  come  to  feel  that  life  could  not 
be  meant  to  give  only  that.  He  had  longed  for  that  utter 
and  blessed  companionship.  And  now  it  was  revealed 
to  him,  made  infinitely  the  more  vivid  and  precious  in 
such  a  setting  as  he  had  assured  to  Anne  and  Greg. 

He  asked  himself,  over  and  over,  what  would  be  the 
end  of  it.  He  had  acquired  the  power,  now,  to  put  the 
question  quite  calmly,  for  it  seemed  to  him  that  the 
accumulation  of  his  bitterness  had  robbed  him  of  ca- 


218  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

pacity  further  to  be  hurt.  What,  after  he  had  endured  the 
rest,  would  be  the  end  of  it?  Sometimes,  for  brief,  stolen 
moments,  he  told  himself  that  Greg's  deception  of  Anne 
had  been  just  and  right.  But  he  put  this  temptation  be 
hind  him  quickly,  for  disloyalty  to  his  own  love  followed 
fast  in  the  wake  of  it.  At  other  times  he  would  find  him 
self  dreaming  of  a  return  to  America.  But  this  dream 
was  even  shorter  than  the  other,  and  even  less  frequently 
indulged,  immeasurably  less  pleasurable.  For  he  knew 
that  he  should  never  return,  that  he  had  nothing  to  re 
turn  to  now.  Here,  where  he  had  seen  his  Heaven,  he 
should  find  his  end. 

He  wondered  if  she  ever  thought  of  him.  He  assured 
himself  that  she  had  sensed  at  least  a  part  of  his  fear  for 
her.  Not  once  had  he  met  her  at  the  bungalow.  She  had 
been  there;  he  knew  that  from  Anne;  but  they  had 
not  met  there.  By  some  rare  and  characteristic  divina 
tion,  she  had  found  this  way  of  helping  him. 

It  was  after  such  a  revery  that  he  accepted  Greg's  next 
invitation  to  dinner;  the  next  one,  and  the  next.  He  was 
increasingly  welcome  at  the  bungalow.  His  "room"  was 
there. 

"No  one  else '11  ever  sleep  in  it,"  Greg  had  proclaimed. 
And,  if  he  added,  "so  long  as  I'm  here,"  it  was  with  a 
laugh  which  was  almost  natural.  There  was  no  question 
about  it,  the  marriage  had  made  him  over:  from  the 
taut-nerved,  brooding  boy,  who  had  leaned  on  the  big 
man  with  almost  the  dependence  of  a  woman,  Bradbroke 
had  become  a  man,  not  yet  one  with  sturdiest  virility, 
but  alert,  nevertheless,  and  seemingly  confident.  That 
was  it:  seemingly.  The  big  man  never  overlooked  that 


THE  ENGLISH  VIOLET  219 

limitation,  the  slight,  yet  to  him  always  visible,  unwill 
ingness  with  which  Greg  spoke  of  the  future  to  his  other 
guests.  He  wondered  by  what  alchemy  Greg  had  induced 
Anne  so  to  alter  that,  despite  their  new,  financial  ability, 
she  said  no  word  of  returning  to  England.  But,  whatever 
the  explanation  —  and  it  continued  to  remain  remote 
to  the  American  —  Durban  seemed  to  be  all  in  all  to  them : 
it  was  as  if  they  had  gone  back,  genuinely,  to  the  first 
aspect  they  had  offered  him  of  South  Africa;  but  he  knew, 
now,  that  their  attitude  could  be  taken  at  its  face  value. 
It  was  not  the  masterly  deception  which  it  had  required 
the  merciless  interloper  in  the  street,  with  his  crazy  song, 
to  disclose.  Something  had  altered  them.  The  money, 
probably.  And  the  big  man  was  grateful,  hoping  only 
for  its  sufficient  continuance.  He  still  swung  this  and 
that  revenue  to  Greg  out  of  the  partnership,  for  he  still 
saw,  grinning  closer  and  closer,  the  day  when  Greg,  after 
having  gone  to  the  office  as  usual,  would  not  return. 
And,  in  the  safe  seclusion  of  the  big  man's  private  office, 
Greg  would  say,  as  the  pounds  added  and  multiplied: 

"Yes,  I  know,  Ormsby,  but  what's  the  use?  We've 
got  enough  to  keep  us  on,  and  she'll  be  safe,  afterward. 
So,  what's  the  good  in  any  more  of  it?  What's  the  use?  " 

And,  as  he  met  the  steady  eyes,  set  in  the  lean,  big- 
boned,  grave  face,  "For  it's  just  as  if  a  doctor  had  said 
to  us,  after  he'd  looked  us  over, '  You've  got  a  few  months 
more  to  live,  probably!'  Meaning,"  Greg  would  un 
varyingly  conclude,  "'Take  no  thought  to  the  morrow'; 
and  that's  what  I'm  doing.  Only  there's  this  difference: 
the  shrewdest  diagnosticians  go  wrong,  sometimes;  but 
we're  sure" 


220  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

They  rarely  spoke  of  it  now,  in  further  detail.  The 
Greg  at  the  office  would  have  been  unrecognizable  to 
Anne  Bradbroke.  She  would  have  understood  as  little 
his  comment  on  the  ever-increasing  income,  "What's 
the  use?"  —  as  little  dreamed  that  the  expression  was 
now  habitual  to  Greg.  Only  by  that  one  act — the 
marriage  —  had  Greg  seemed,  to  the  big  man,  to  have 
found  "the  use." 

"And  you've  not  written  a  word  home  about  it?"  he 
would  ask  Greg. 

"No,"  was  the  unvarying  answer.     "Have  you?" 

"No." 

Greg  would  shake  his  head.  "When  you're  alone, 

there  in  the  rooms Gad!  Ormsby,  don't  you  find 

it  intolerable?" 

"Yes."    Only  the  monosyllable. 

Time  after  time,  following  this  exchange  of  interrog 
atories,  Greg  would  consult  Anne,  and  then  take  the 
American  home  with  him. 

In  this  way,  and  quite  without  any  appearance  of  un- 
naturalness,  he  maintained  his  quiet  espionage  of  Greg. 

Though  he  continued  to  avoid  the  Netherbys,  he  led 
the  talk  again  and  again  to  them,  when  at  the  bungalow. 
Lord  and  Lady  Netherby  were  taking  Marian  about  the 
country,  Anne  said,  at  last:  they  had  spent  a  couple  of 
days  at  the  Cape,  and  were  now  doing  Johannesburg  and 
Pretoria;  and  might  even  keep  on  up  into  the  Transvaal. 
She  quoted  the  latest  letter.  Wouldn't  he  come  up  to 
dinner  at  seven,  Thursday  night?  Greg  joined  in,  and 
the  big  man  promised.  This  was  on  a  Saturday  after 
noon. 


THE  ENGLISH  VIOLET 

But,  on  Wednesday  morning,  Anne  called  him  up  at 
the  office :  her  mother  had  wired  from  Pietermaritzburg  — 
Africander  as  she  now  boasted  she  was,  Anne  had  not  yet 
learned  to  abbreviate  the  word  to  the  colloquial  "  Maritz- 
burg"  —  that  the  Rivett-Coltons  were  about  to  descend 
with  innumerable  nurses  and  children.  They  might  arrive 
Thursday  morning.  Wouldn't  he  come  to-night  at  half- 
past  six? 

Yes,  of  course. 

It  had  been  one  of  his  worst  days :  Greg  had  dawdled, 
and  finally  gone  away  early,  his  face  white  and  drawn. 
The  big  man  knew  the  signs;  and,  because,  in  his  resulting 
anxiety,  he  had  forgotten,  said  nothing  of  the  morning 
talk  with  Anne.  But  six-fifteen  found  him  walking  up 
the  drive  to  the  bungalow. 

"If  I  can  manage  a  moment  with  Anne,"  he  said, 
as  he  made  the  steps,  "  I'll  warn  her  that  Greg's  over 
working."  He  looked  from  the  veranda,  hoping  that 
she  might  be  in  the  rose-garden.  But  she  was  not,  and 
only  its  own,  subdued  jangle  resulted  when  he  pressed 
the  bell. 

Waiting,  he  wondered  why Nervousness !  He 

upbraided  himself.  Then  rang  again.  At  least,  the 
servants  would  be  about  somewhere! 

A  step  on  the  gravel  at  his  left  made  him  turn.  "  Anne," 
he  thought. 

"  You?"  he  said. 

Their  violet  never  before  so  deep,  she  raised  her  eyes  to 
his. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  slowly,  hesitatingly.  "Anne  told 
me " 


222  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

That  told  him:  Anne's  handiwork  this,  turned  traitor 
by  her  gratitude. 

But  this  thought  was  only  subconscious.  He  descended 
to  her.  She  ascended  to  him.  So  it  happened  that 
after  one  instant,  in  which  neither  spoke,  they  turned,  and 
as  if  to  their  own  home,  went  up  the  steps  side  by  side. 

"She  told  me  that  you  were  at  Pietermaritzburg." 

"She  told  me  that  you  were  at  Kimberley." 

He  looked  wretchedly  away  from  her.  "I  meant  — 
I  was  coming  — 

"Yes,"  she  said.     "Yes,  I  know." 

He  looked  down  into  her  eyes.  How  wonderful  she 
was!  There  was  nothing  in  the  whole  world  like  her 
gentleness!  Then  he  turned  his  eyes  from  her.  It 
would  be  easier,  that  way,  and  he  must  take  advantage 
of  everything  that  he  could.  But  Fate,  which  he  had 
thought  must  be  through  with  his  torture,  was  not 
through:  for  it  showed  him  the  softly  lighted,  peaceful, 
domestic  inner  room :  the  rattan  and  wricker  —  cool,  com 
fortable,  restful,  again  his  taste  and  choice;  from  where 
he  stood  he  could  see  two  chairs  at  the  table,  waiting, 
as  if  they,  too,  were  in  the  universal  conspiracy  which  must 
end  in  overpowering  him.  And  between  them  and  this 
glimpse  of  the  home  all  his  soul  cried  out  for,  waited  — 
the  English  violet. 

It  was  too  much !  The  soft  light  on  the  big-boned  face 
was  merciless  to  him,  as  his  love  was.  For  one  moment, 
she  read  it.  Then,  his  face  went  down  into  her  out 
stretched  hands.  In  another,  reason  came  back  to  him, 
and  he  pressed  her  away  from  him. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  whispered,  "for  what  you  can  never 


THE  ENGLISH  VIOLET  223 

forgive.  Go  to  England!  For,  because  I  have  not  the 
right  to  love  you,  to  see  you  is  more  than  I  can  bear." 

"Not  the  right?"  she  begged.  She  revealed  herself 
anew  to  him  in  that  her  voice  held  only  grief  and  in 
credulity. 

"No,  not  the  right,  though  I  believe  heaven  itself 
pities  me.  I  am  held  by  a  curse  that  I  have  not  earned. 
I  am  doomed,  without  hope.  There  can  be  no  escape 
for  me." 

She  had  crossed  the  distance  between  them.  "  Instead 
of  going  back  to  England — "  her  voice  broke,  "let  me 
stay.  No,  no!  Not  go!  Don't  you  see,  it  can  never 
be  now,"  she  cried,  with  the  utter  sorrow  of  a  child. 

"Go  back  to  England.  God  bless  and  protect  you  so 
tenderly  always."  For  one  never-to-be-forgotten  mo 
ment,  he  held  her  close  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  lips, 
her  hair,  and  her  soft  temples.  Then,  he  was  down  the 
steps.  And  she  knew  that  he  had  gone. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
ALONE 

HE  HAD  asked  her  to  go,  and  he  knew  that 
she  would  go.  But,  fast  on  the  heels  of  his 
entreaty  the  realization  of  what  her  obedience 
would  mean  to  him  had  come  so  poignantly  that,  while 
he  walked,  night-long,  through  the  voiceless  streets  of 
the  sleeping  city,  he  had  been  coward  enough  to  hope 
that  she  would  not  go.  But  morning  brought  him 
sanity.  And  Greg,  coming  into  the  office  an  hour  after 
the  other  had  reached  it,  brought  the  word : 

"The  devil's  to  pay,  Ormsby:  Miss  Langmaid's  sail 
ing  to-day  for  home,  and  Anne's  getting  out  mourning. 
Blames  me,  blames  you!  Angry  and  teary  together!  I 
say,  old  chap,  why  didn't  you  wait,  last  night?  I'd  just 
gone  over  to  tell  Lady  Bam  the  Rivett-Coltons  were 
coming.  Expected  to  be  back  before  you  came.  Knew 
Miss  Langmaid  was  there  and  you  wouldn't  be  lonely." 
He  looked  up  into  the  big-boned  face.  "Nothing  wrong, 
I  hope,  old  chap?" 

Greg  nodded  slowly,  then  walked  to  the  window,  look 
ing  out  for  slow,  long  moments.  Then,  he  turned  back, 
"I  know,"  he  cried  with  sudden  passion.  "If  it  weren't 
for  your  knowing,  and  your  being  here,  I'd  have  given 
in  long  ago,  and  sent  my  ghost  off  into  the  ether  after 
Hugh  and  Brett  and  Carstairs  and  Jem.  Sometimes,"  he 

224 


ALONE  225 

went  on,  after  a  long  pause,  "I  can  almost  believe  that 
they're  not  dead.  I  know  they  are;  but  I  find  myself 
looking  on  ahead,  in  the  old  way,  I  used  before  It  began : 
the  old  life  here  comes  back  to  me;  the  old  drudgery  at  the 
consulate;  Brett  wearing  his  heart  out  for  a  girl  who'd 
forgotten  him  and  never  cared  for  him  and  sent  him  a 
picture  of  her  and  her  baby  —  I  swear  there  never  was 
such  cruelty  before!  how  he  ever  supported  himself,  I 
used  to  wonder;  wish  he'd  cleared  that  up,  first!  Used 
to  think  it  was  secret  gambling,  but  it  couldn't  have  been, 
for  he'd  neither  the  skill  nor  luck;  Jem  basting  about, 
always  looking  for  something,  and  never  finding  it;  Hugh 
grinding  himself  down  for  his  gold  company,  no  pay,  no 
present,  no  future  —  how  he  used  to  talk  to  me  of  it ! 
Gad!  Carstairs  getting  that  little  of  his  from  home,  just 
a  shade  more  than  Jem  got,  but  not  coming  so  regularly, 
so  they  broke  about  even;  always  telling  about  his  mythi 
cal  trust  company.  Tried  to  pin  him  down  to  locating 
it  once,  but  saw  I'd  hurt  him,  and  cut  it  out!  Wasn't 
any  such  thing  as  that  trust  company!  And  the  girls: 
most  of  'em  worse  fixed  by  a  lot  than  we  men  were,  but 
standing  it  a  lot  better,  the  way  a  woman  always  does. 
Gad,  I'd  seen  'em  change  from  girls  to  women  the  first 
year  after  we  got  here!  Poor  little  Shirley  Framleigh 
tried  once  to  get  a  place  in  a  shop  —  in  a  shop,  by  Gad, 
as  a  model,  a  thing  they  hang  gowns  on,  yes,  by  the  Lord, 
a  manikin !  Got  the  place,  and  stood  it  somehow.  None 
of  us  knew  she  was  doing  it.  Then,  one  day,  Anne 
had  to  go  to  the  shop  for  something,  'finally  got  in  the 
cloak  department,  didn't  dream  of  it!  Of  course,  they 
didn't  show  they  knew  each  other,  But  one  of  the  sales- 


226  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

women,  one  of  the  head  ones,  whatever  you  call  'em, 
caught  Shirley  up  for  something,  went  after  her  no  end, 
all  kinds  of  things,  and  Anne  took  Shirley  and  kissed  her 
and  patted  her  and  floored  the  floorwalker  and  took 
Shirley  home  with  her.  Shirley  'd  had  some  trouble  with 
the  aunt  she'd  been  living  with.  No  question,  the  old 
lady's  no  end  disagreeable,  but  —  anyway,  it  was  too 
bad!" 

"Yes,  it's  too  bad,"  said  the  big  man  absently.  He 
wished  Greg  had  not  told  him  how  bad  it  was. 

"Hazel  Ellicombe,  too.  Well,  the  Almighty  knows, 
maybe,  what  the  Ellicombes  live  on.  A  shot  different,  if 
you  ask  me,  from  what  they  had  at  home.  Hazel  never 
complains,  though,  not  even  when  she  gets  these  clothes, 
to  make  over  herself,  from  some  of  the  connection  at 
home.  Got  used  to  it  by  now,  likely.  Anyway,  never 
complains.  Neither  did  Anne.  But  Catherine  Heth- 
eridge"  —  he  hurried  on,  "Gad!  when  Catherine  turns  on 
that  —  that  Jewish  woman,  what's  her  name?  Zelig, 
they  say  she  daren't  call  her  soul  her  own!  Catherine's 
the  only  thing  in  the  world  a  woman  with  a  moustache  like 
that  could  be  afraid  of.  Odd  business,  if  you  ask  me! 
Suppose  Catherine  had  to,  but  —  I  say,  ever  hear ?" 

The  big  man  got  up  from  his  chair.  "More  than  I 
want  to  again!"  He  shook  his  head. 

"Oh,  come  now,"  Greg  objected,  "what's  the  harm? 
We're  all  in  the  same  boat,  ain't  we?  Same  boat?  Fancy 
that's  not  much  wrong,  only  you  and  I  are  the  worst  fixed 
of  the  lot."  He  shot  the  words  out  savagely,  as  if,  by 
some  devious  and  infinitely  detached  reasoning,  he  had 
succeeded,  to  his  own  satisfaction,  in  fastening  liability 


ALONE  227 

for  their  fate  on  the  big  man.  "I  say,"  he  broke  out 
again,  after  a  moment,  "Miss  Langmaid's  leaving  to 
day,  going  home,  back  to  England.  I  was  to  tell  you. 
Between  us,  I'm  no  end  glad.  Can't  tell  what'll  come  to 
any  one,  off,  out  of  everything,  down  here,  and  she's 
a  no  end  fine  girl.  Now,  she'll  go  back  there  and  marry 
some  one.  No  one  she  could  marry  here!  She's  going 
back  to  England,  I  say.  And  why  don't  you  go  back  to 
America?  Oh,  I  know,"  bitterly,  "it  can't  hinder  the 
Thing  coming;  but,  for  the  matter  of  that,  it  can't  prob 
ably  hurry  It.  Why  don't  you  go,  and  anyway  be  in  a 
spot  you  like,  while  you  do  live?  You  used  to  be  such  a 
live  chap,  had  more  energy  than  I'd  ever  seen!  But  now, 
all  you  do  is  sit  here,  working,  working!  Heaven,"  he 
sent  his  thin  arms  out,  "in  your  place  —  — !" 

"In  my  place,"  said  the  big  man  thoughtfully.  "Tell 
me  what  you  would  do,  in  my  place." 

Greg  met  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  then  turned 
away. 

"Yes,"  he  said  moodily,  "I  suppose  so.  As  well  wait 
for  It  here  as  anywhere.  That's  what  I'm  doing.  But 

still "  He  shook  his  head,  in  the  dull,  baffled  way 

which  had  now  come  to  be  such  a  part  of  him.  Then  he 
turned  back  to  the  big  man:  "Why  did  it  have  to  come  to 
us?  We  hadn't  done  anything,  I  mean  been  any  worse 
than  the  rest,  yet  there  they  go,"  he  swung  his  arm  toward 
the  crowds  which  sifted  along  before  the  window,  "poor 
prisoners  to  poverty  all  of  'em,  but  free,  while  you  and 

I "  Again  he  broke  off  abruptly,  his  eyes,  of  the 

colour  of  burnt  wood,  seeming  to  find  a  fascination  — 
so  strong  was  their  envy  —  in  those  polyglot  free-agents, 


228  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

who  encumbered  the  Durban  sidewalks,  yes,  in  even  the 
Zulus  and  Kaffirs  who,  not  being  allowed  the  courtesy  and 
convenience  of  the  narrow  sidewalks,  flowed  along  slug 
gishly  in  the  gutters,  hung,  for  a  time,  in  the  eddies  at 
the  street  corners,  then  drifted  on  again.  "I  know,"  he 
came  out  again  with,  having  regained  his  starting-point, 
"but  wouldn't  even  the  waiting  be  easier  in  a  place  you 
know  and  love?  With  people  you've  known  and  liked 
for  a  long  time,  people  who'd  known  your  people  — 
there's  a  lot  in  that  —  wouldn't  waiting,  even  though  it's 
only  just  waiting,  be  better  there?  Of  course,  you 
couldn't  tell  them  anything;  but  —  just  the  same.  Why, 
I  think  of  England,  and  if  we  could  only  go  back  to  it, 
Anne  and  I.  Seems  to  me,  sometimes,  I've  got  to  see 
England  once  more  —  before!"  His  shoulders  set,  as  if  to 
resist  a  shudder  which  had  gone  through  them.  "When 
I  hadn't  a  pound  saved,  it  was  to  go  back  with  Anne  and 
live  there.  And  now,  when  we've  got  all  this  money,  all 
I'd  hope  for  from  going  would  be  to  see  it  once  more,  and 

then "  His  face  turned  away  sharply.  No  need 

for  him  to  define. 

"When,"  asked  the  big  man,  after  a  time,  "does  she 
sail?" 

"Miss  Langmaid?  At  noon.  It  seems  to  me,  if  I  got 
down  to  that  dock  and  knew  that  boat  would  take  me 

to I  say,"  he  swung  'round  to  the  big  man,  "you'll 

come  down,  of  course?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  I'll  go  up  now  and  tell  Anne  I've  told  you. 
She's  been  helping  her  with  the  packing  and  stuff  since 
breakfast."  He  opened  the  door.  "The  Rennie  dock, 


ALONE  229 

you  know.  Same  one  you  and  Carstairs,  I  mean  you 
and  I,  went  to.  At  twelve." 

The  door  slowly  opened.  He  looked  back.  Then  the 
door  slowly  closed. 

He  went  to  the  boat.  Because  it  might  have  meant 
seeing  her  alone,  he  had  not  gone,  in  the  interval,  to  the 
Netherbys'.  And,  there  at  the  dock,  he  was  glad  of  the 
crowd  and  the  tumult,  glad,  too,  that  of  all  those  who 
had  heard  and  come  to  see  her  leave  them,  he  alone  had 
sought  out  a  florist's.  While  the  rest  encircled  her,  he 
stood  back.  How  he  wished,  now  that  she  was  so  nearly 
away,  that  he  had  gone  to  the  Netherbys'!  But,  when 
the  whistle  ashore  sounded,  he  found  himself  suddenly 
beside  her,  the  porters  thrust  aside,  and  his  own  hands 
lifting  her  luggage. 

"No,  you  must  let  me,"  he  heard  himself  saying.  "I 
got  these  for  you."  This  was  while  he  was  giving  her  the 
roses  which  he  had  been  so  glad  to  find.  They  had  been 
the  next  best  to  English  violets.  Then,  in  the  same  daze 
which  had  suddenly  come  on  everything,  he  realized  that 
he  was  following  her  down  a  corridor,  after  a  white- 
jacketed  steward,  to  her  very  stateroom.  For  a  wild 
moment,  he  said  to  himself: 

"I  will  go  with  her  to  England."  And,  even  for  an 
other,  saner  moment,  he  held  the  impossible  thought  to 
his  breast.  For  she  was  looking  up  into  his  face,  the  violet 
eyes  raining  tears. 

"Dearest,  let  me  stay  with  you,"  she  was  crying,  her 
young  arms  about  him,  as  he  held  her;  "let  me  stay  and 
have  whatever  comes  to  you!" 

It  was  heaven.     For  one  heartbeat,  he  held  her  and 


230  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

kissed  her  even  while  crying:  "Because  I  love  you  so, 
you  must  go!"  Then  he  tore  himself  from  her,  and 
somehow  found  the  corridor  and  the  plank.  From  the 
dock,  he  looked  back  once  to  where  she  stood  at  the  rail, 
seeing  him  only.  Then  his  arms  went  out.  The  steamer 
receded.  And  he  knew  that  she  had  gone. 

"What  did  you  say?"  some  one  asked,  beside  him.  It 
was  Bradbroke.  And  the  big  man  knew  that  he  was  an 
swering  something.  He  was  dividing  the  crowd,  suddenly, 
to  be  halted  by  a  woman  crying,  in  a  voice  hard  to  him : 

"You've  driven  her  away.  I  hope,  now,  you  suffer. 
I'm  glad!  I'm  glad!" 

"Anne,  for  God's  sake!     The  others!" 

That  was  Greg,  of  course.  But  could  the  woman 
really  have  been  Anne? 

It  was;  and,  beside  herself  almost,  she  raced  on.  "She 
didn't  tell  me.  But  I  know.  You  made  her  love  you, 

then Oh,  Greg,  I  can't  even  think  of  it !  Take  me 

home!" 

His  eyes  met  Greg's  for  an  instant.  "At  the  office," 
Greg's  lips  said,  over  Anne's  head.  "Yes,  home  now," 
he  said  to  Anne. 

The  big  man  had  stood  passive  under  her  mad  denun 
ciation.  Unjust?  Yes,  but  what  did  that  matter?  It 
was  just  another  injustice  in  an  unjust  world!  But  it 
was  done  now,  and  he  could  go.  He  sent  his  bulk  against 
the  coolies  who  cowered  away  from  him  terror-struck; 
and,  in  another  moment,  was  in  the  sun-seared  street,  his 
heart  dead,  his  eyes  seeing  only  what  he  knew  that  he 
should  see  even  through  the  hereafter  —  a  brave,  beauti 
ful  face,  the  most  wonderful  face  in  the  world  to  him, 


ALONE  231 

soft,  sweet  lips,  dropping  with  a  child's  utter  sorrow, 
violet  eyes,  deep,  true,  and  faithful,  their  tears  wetting  his 
roses,  which  she  pressed  to  her  lips,  her  heart  and  breast. 
Back,  back,  through  streets  grown  suddenly  strange  to 
him,  the  streets  of  a  city  which  he  seemed  never  to  have 
known  earlier.  On  back,  after  what  gropings  he  knew 
not.  Back,  into  that  dark  and  dreadful  loneliness  which 
now  must  be  his  forevermore! 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
WAITING 

AT  THE  office,"  Greg  had  signalled,  as  he  led 
Anne  away.  But  the  big  man  had  no  intention 
of  keeping  that  appointment.  He  should  not  be 
in  Durban,  when  Greg  looked  for  him  at  their  offices. 

Half  an  hour  later,  after  seeing  his  trunk  packed, 
locked,  and  swung  into  the  rickshaw,  he  turned  his 
back  on  the  rooms  in  which  he  had  lived,  it  seemed  to 
him,  for  a  thousand  days. 

"To  Kimberley,"  he  told  the  agent  in  the  ticket-window 
at  the  little  station. 

"One  way?"  asked  the  official. 

"One  way." 

He  remembered,  idly,  that  it  was  six  hundred  and  eight 
miles  from  Durban  to  Kimberley  by  the  Natal  Govern 
ment  Railway,  which  went  by  way  of  Van  Reenen  Mod- 
derpoort,  and  that  the  journey  required  forty-two  hours. 
£4,  lls.,  he  recalled,  sub-consciously,  was  the  fare,  first- 
class.  He  paid  the  amount,  found  a  seat  in  a  carriage, 
and  closed  his  eyes.  He  felt  no  interest  in  the  transit. 
He  wanted  to  get  to  Kimberley.  For  Kimberley  repre 
sented  to  him  a  place  where  he  could  be  alone,  and,  as 
long  as  he  had  to,  could  wait. 

He  had  selected  it  by  instant  decision.  And  it  did 
not  come  over  him,  until  the  train  had  started  and  Dur- 

232 


WAITING  233 

ban  was  slipping  behind  him,  that  he  had  left  no  word  for 
Greg.  He  reflected  impersonally  that  he  would  write 
to  him,  some  time,  just  say  that  he  had  gone  to  Kimberley 
to  —  wait. 

Even  now,  while  half -admitting  that  he  should  have 
told  Greg,  he  felt  no  stroke  of  conscience.  For  the  man 
had  gone  through  what  had  dulled  his  every  sense.  Greg 
would  go  to  the  offices,  then,  not  finding  him  there,  would 
telephone,  or  go  to  the  club,  probably;  then  to  his  rooms, 
the  ones  that  had  been  his,  and  look  about  just  as  he 
and  Greg  and  Carstairs  had  done  at  Paxton's;  and  as  he 
and  Greg  had  done,  later  —  not  much  later  —  at  Car- 
stairs.'  Then,  Greg  would  understand.  How  simple  it 
all  was:  Greg  would  understand. 

If  he  had  once  stopped  to  think  of  it,  he  would  have 
realized  that  he  was  crediting  Bradbroke  with  such  powers 
of  understanding  as  the  boy  had  never  had.  And  yet,  it 
was  not  so  much  that :  Greg  had  not  altered.  It  was  the 
big  man  who  had  altered,  having  come,  quite  suddenly, 
not  to  care  whether  Greg  understood  or  not.  He  did  not 
care.  That  was  it:  he  didn't  care,  now;  and  it  came  over 
him  with  almost  a  comforting  power,  that  he  had  now  let 
everything  go,  that  he  was  openly  defying  what  had  al 
ready  claimed  Fraser  and  the  three  others,  and  would 
soon  claim  Greg  and  himself.  It  could  come  when  It 
would.  He  didn't  care,  now.  Though  he  accepted  the 
facts  as  fully  as  ever,  even  more  fully,  he  felt  no  fear.  He 
had  given  up  too  much,  been  robbed  of  too  much,  been 
robbed  of  everything !  Greg  was  nothing  to  him  any 
longer,  afforded  him  not  the  least  responsibility. 

It  gave  him  a  strange,  infinitely  relaxed  sense  of  free- 


234  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

dom  to  realize  that  he  could  feel  like  this,  and  he  leaned 
idly  back  in  his  seat,  scanning  the  other  passengers.  Yes, 
they  were  just  like  the  rest,  just  like  the  crowd  which 
peopled  the  better  streets  in  Durban:  each  of  them  going, 
placidly  and  acceptingly,  or  tensely  and  bitterly,  about 
his  appointed  way.  Everything  was  appointed  for  every 
one,  in  this  world!  It  didn't  matter  how  much  any  one 
had,  in  the  way  of  ostensible  power  of  resistance;  he  got 
what  was  laid  out  for  him.  It  was  the  same  way  with 
these  people  here,  the  seven  beside  himself  —  for  the 
compartment  was  full.  He  didn't  care  about  them  either ! 
There  was  a  German,  a  Jew,  two  Dutchmen,  and  three 
Englishmen. 

He  realized  that  his  thoughts  were  about  to  retreat, 
and  so  he  despatched  them  on  ahead  to  Kimberley,  won 
dering  if  the  sheet-iron  shack  were  still  there.  Then,  he 
smiled  —  in  the  utter  abstraction  of  his  despair,  he  could 
smile  almost  lazily  —  remembering  that  the  two  months, 
since  he  had  left  it,  could  hardly  be  expected  to  bring  it 
down.  Two  months?  His  hands  clenched:  he  must 
accept  the  fact  that  it  was  only  two  months !  But  was  it 
really  possible? 

Automatically  he  leaned  back,  and  glanced  over  his 
shoulder  from  the  window.  Yes,  he  was  still  in  Natal, 
hardly  an  hour  out  of  Durban,  yet.  The  time  again! 
It  was  incredible.  He  raised  his  hand  to  his  forehead, 
and  the  touch  started  his  memory  again.  It  was  only  an 
hour  and  only  two  months,  let  the  latter  seem,  as  they  did, 
endless  centuries.  God  in  Heaven,  could  he  never  believe 
what  he  knew  to  be  the  truth? 

He  threw  himself  back  in  his  seat.     Was  there  nothing 


WAITING  235 

that  he  could  do,  no  fruit  of  his  strength,  his  powers  of 
resistance?  No  means  of  escaping  It  and  regaining  Her? 
He  was  John  Ormsby,  an  American,  a  free  man  and  a 
strong  man,  and  this  was  the  twentieth  century!  He 
sprang  to  his  feet,  his  capable  shoulders  back!  Then,  he 
saw  again  that  fateful  room  at  the  Regent,  the  fiend, 
hell-sent  with  the  blight  of  his  prophecy;  Jem  Fraser, 
the  four  others,  and  himself;  then,  Hammerstone  sub 
tracting  Jem's  inert  body;  then  Chadwell  out;  then  the 
singer  lopped  off;  then  Carstairs;  and  then  only  himself 
and  Bradbroke,  The  Man  Between.  And,  seeing,  the 
big  man  sank  low  in  his  seat  again.  The  twentieth  cen 
tury,  yes.  And  he  was  still  John  Ormsby,  an  American. 
But  this  was  South  Africa,  and  his  life  had  gone  out,  just 
now,  when  she  had  obeyed  him,  and  gone  away  from  him. 

"What's  the  use? "  he  asked  himself.  Even  if  he  could 
hold  out  a  little  longer,  what  was  the  use  of  resisting, 
now?  It  was  just  as  Greg  had  kept  saying  of  the  money: 

"What's  the  use?" 

He  nodded  to  himself,  his  eyes  closed,  his  isolation  so 
absolute  that  he  felt  himself  alone  in  the  swaying  carriage. 
He  was  alone! 

Somehow,  he  slept  that  night.  The  succeeding  day 
passed  at  last,  its  passage  a  miracle.  At  last  Kimberley; 
and  he  stood  at  the  station,  his  eyes  following  the  train 
which  had  slid  along  again.  After  watching  it,  as  one 
might  have  a  phenomenon,  he  turned  and  ascended  the 
staggering  street.  That  night  he  stretched  himself  again 
on  the  bed  in  the  one-roomed,  sheet-iron  shack. 

It  was  a  triumph  of  his  will  and  his  youth  and  his  powers 
of  endurance,  or  as  shrewd  a  demonstration  of  his  abject 


236  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

weariness,  that  he  slept  soundly  through  the  long  night, 
to  wake  amazed  at  finding  himself  where  he  was.  For 
the  place  had  not  varied  a  particle:  the  bed  still  stood  in 
the  alcove  he  had  set  off  by  the  partition;  there  was  the 
square  section  of  window  he  had  "cut  in"  by  sawing  three 
boards  out;  the  box  he  had  put  shelves  in  for  his  clothes; 
the  other  box  end-up,  which  he  had  christened  his 
"tobacco  table"-  — he  could  see  along  its  edge  a  scatter  of 
dark  ashes,  the  bottom  of  a  smoked-out  pipe.  Not  one 
thing  had  changed.  The  room  looked  as  much  as  ever 
like  the  interior  of  a  big,  dry,  solidly  built  packing-box! 
Leaning  on  his  elbow,  he  studied  it,  his  eyes  every  now 
and  then  going  from  where  he  was,  on  the  bed  in  the 
alcove,  around  as  far  as  they  could  past  the  rim  of  the 
partition  into  what  he  had  laughingly  told  Greg  was 
"the  living-room."  How  happy  he  had  been  in  it  — 
then !  He  had  spent  his  days  in  the  Fields,  studying  the 
blue,  diamondiferous  soil,  then  the  shiftings  in  the 
market;  who  was  buying  and  who  was  selling  what;  and 
had  come  back,  each  evening,  comfortably  tired,  rolled 
in  the  tub  his  "boy"  always  had  filled  and  alluring;  then 
a  dinner  somewhere;  then  back  to  the  shack,  and  into  his 
loafing-clothes — a  habit  preserved  from  his  Harvard  days; 
then  to  stretch  his  big  length  and  breadth  comfortably  out, 
for  a  long  evening  with  his  books  and  pipe. 

That  was  all  he  had  had,  but  he  had  been  very  happy  in 
it.  It  seemed,  now,  a  very  small  total  for  the  utter  satis 
fying  of  any  one;  and  he  saw  in  that,  what,  in  those 
thoughtless  days,  he  had  only  half  suspected:  how  little 
since  his  maturity  he  had  known  a  home.  Nothing 
approaching  it!  Nothing  in  the  wide  world!  Tom,  of 


WAITING  237 

course,  and  Tom's  wife.  They  had  been  very  good  to 
him,  asked  him  to  come  and  live  with  them,  had  made  him 
know  that  a  room  in  their  little  house  was  his.  That 
had  been  after  Tom  had  first  begun  to  win  the  editors, 
when  Tom  had  first  entered  the  long  line  of  victories 
which  now  meant  that  he  had  won.  He  could  remember 
his  father  and  his  mother  with  a  clarity  which,  he  recog 
nized,  was  a  blessing  in  itself.  He  was  glad  that  he  had 
realized  that,  in  time.  And  what  he  had  seen  of  many 
other  parents  had  made  him  more  than  ever  proud  of  his 
own:  their  nobility  in  each  other's  eyes,  their  reverence 
for  each  other,  his  father's  strength  and  his  mother's 
gentleness  —  their  love.  Never  had  they  had  much 
money.  His  father  had  been  a  teacher,  almost  from  the 
hour  of  his  leaving  college,  the  best-read,  the  most  rarely 
educated  man,  the  man  of  the  highest  literary  attainments, 
that  he  had  ever  known.  He  should  have  been  at  the 
head  of  a  great  university.  What  a  power  and  an  in 
fluence  he  would  have  been  there!  How  the  greatest 
university  of  them  all  had  needed  him!  He  had  been 
offered  a  professorship  in  one  of  the  small  colleges,  but  the 
college  was  only  an  infant,  however  vigorous,  and  the 
opportunity,  which  would  have  been  only  the  first  in  a 
long  list  of  advancements,  had  passed:  he  had  retained 
the  headship  of  his  own  boarding-school.  Then,  Tom's 
college  days;  then  the  younger  brother's.  Then,  suddenly, 
only  Tom  and  the  younger  brother,  Tom  writing  con 
fidently  along  in  his  poverty,  and  the  younger  a  clerk  in  a 
bond  house,  neither  one  dreaming,  however  confident,  of 
what  returns  their  energy  was  to  bring  to  them.  Yes, 
Tom  and  Janet  had  really  wanted  him.  It  had  not  been 


238  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

mere  pity  for  his  loneliness.  But  he  was  just  beginning  to 
succeed  then,  and  had  felt  unable  to  settle  down  any. 
where.  He  had  not  wanted  a  home  then.  He  would 
move  the  world !  Then,  little  by  little,  his  clubs  had  begun 
to  show  their  lacks  to  him:  they  were  his  own,  but  they 
were  only  clubs.  And,  suddenly,  very  unwarningly 
suddenly,  he  had  found  that  only  one  thing  in  the  world 
made  a  man's  home  his  own;  and  he  had  begun  his  search 
for  Her.  Sometimes,  it  would  seem  for  a  brief  time  that 
he  had  found  her;  but  he  had  always  seen  the  error  in  time; 
and  he  had  gone  on  and  on,  always  keeping  himself,  always 
searching  —  America,  England,  France,  Spain,  Germany, 
north,  south,  east,  and  west,  until  he  had  half-begun  to 
fear  that  She  was  not.  And  then 

He  would  leave  a  letter  for  Tom.  By  the  way,  he'd 
better  get  writing  it.  You  couldn't  tell!  It  should  give 
just  the  bare  facts,  with  a  request  that  Tom  should 
not  attempt  to  find  any  explanation  of  the  unexplainable. 
And  Tom  and  Janet  and  the  baby  would  remember  him. 
The  little  baby!  How  dear  it  suddenly  was  to  him:  little 
Janet!  How  she  had  crowed  from  his  shoulder!  Tom's 
shoulder  was  not  so  wide  or  so  high  as  his.  Once  he  had 
told  Her  of  little  Janet,  and  she  had  said : 

"The  dear  little  thing!  The  dear  little  baby!"  He 
wished  —  He  sent  his  thoughts  back  again.  It  was  a 
good  thing  for  the  world  that  there  lived  three  such  happy 
and  lovable  people  as  Tom  and  Janet  and  the  little  baby. 
He  ought  to  have  written  them  a  good  deal  more  regu 
larly,  to  have  showed  them  a  good  deal  more  what  they 
meant  to  him.  Now,  all  he  could  do,  he  had  done.  He 
meant  what  should  come  to  them  from  his  wTill.  Yes, 


WAITING  239 

that  was  all  he  could  do  now.  It  was  too  close,  this 
Doom  of  his,  for  him  to  do  any  one  of  the  thousand  things 
he  would  have  done  if  he  could  have  lived  half  as  long  as 
he  had  felt  so  sure  to  live!  Already,  his  life  was  over. 
All  that  he  could  do  now  was  —  wait. 

Splash!  Splash!  There  was  the  "boy"  filling  the  tub 
with  water,  the  same,  silent  "boy,"  silent,  yet  immaturely 
cordial  as  ever.  Had  he  really  found  umjacobi,  last 
night,  and  told  him  to  come  back  into  his  old  service,  or 
had  he  —  as  seemed  far  more  probable  —  not  been  away 
at  all? 

He  rose  from  the  bed,  shaved,  and  went  through  his 
exercises,  then  to  his  tub. 

"It  has  been  long,  umFundize,"  said  the  Zulu  boy. 
"By  coming  again,  you  have  taken  the  wedge  from  be 
tween  my  teeth."  It  was  one  of  the  formal  salutations  of 
the  Zulu,  common  to  all  the  countless  dialects  of  the 
ancient  Bantu  stock.  Though  formal,  it  left  no  doubt  of 
the  speaker's  relief  and  gladness.  Each  morning,  in  those 
days  that  were  gone,  the  Zulu  had  pronounced  it  to  the 
big  man,  and  it  was  not  lacking  now. 

"Thank  you,  umjacobi,"  he  said  listlessly,  as  he  seated 
himself  before  the  breakfast  the  other  had  waiting.  "Yes, 
I've  been  a  long  time  gone." 

To  himself,  he  said,  "I'm  the  only  thing  that  has 
changed  here,  but  I've  been  gone  so  long  and  so  far  that  I 
never  can  get  back." 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

KIMBERLEY 

HE  had  fled  not  from  Durban  alone,  but  from  all 
that  could  remind  him  of  what  was  lost  to  him. 
And,  because  he  knew  that  it  would  serve  to 
revive  what  he  had  severed  himself  from,  he  put  off,  day 
after  day,  the  letter  which  he  knew  he  must  write  to  Greg. 
By  plunging  again  into  speculation,  he  tried  to  take  his 
old  life  up  where  he  had  dropped  it,  seeking,  in  this  way, 
to  banish  the  obligation  of  the  letter  from  his  consciousness. 
And,  in  a  way,  he  succeeded;  the  Fields  were  as  un 
changed  as  umJacobi  and  the  shack  of  sheet-iron.  There 
was  the  same  mechanically  perfect  production;  the  same, 
hopeless  losers;  the  same  mad  joy  on  the  part  of  those  who 
won.  Little  by  little,  he  allowed  himself  to  make  new 
acquaintances.  He  could  have  made  many  with  ease,  for 
his  name  had  gone  out,  and  his  return.  He  was  still  the 
amazingly  lucky  American,  still  "The  Human  Mint,  The 
Money-Making  Machine."  Men  came  to  see  him. 
Through  the  long,  quiet  evenings,  more  than  one  man 
smoked  with  him  in  the  sheet-iron  shack.  There  were 
invitations  to  clubs  and  to  houses  in  the  little,  teeming 
city.  But  the  gravity  of  the  big-boned  face  leant  strength 
and  obstinacy  to  his  refusals,  coupled,  though  they  un 
varyingly  were,  with  his  frank  appreciation  of  the  kind 
ness  of  the  offered  hospitality. 

240 


KIMBERLEY  241 

So,  they  set  him  down  as  a  disappointment,  just  "an 
other  American  who  cared  only  for  money,  after  all."  He 
was  "not  half  the  chap  he'd  been  before,"  they  decided: 
"the  American  of  it"  was  "coming  out." 

However  achieved,  the  result  was  inevitable:  he  was 
neither  clubable  —  for  he'd  joined  only  one  club, 
and  that  the  quietest  of  all  —  nor  sociable,  for  he  didn't 
go  to  a  house  in  Kimberley.  Gradually,  the  men  got 
out  of  the  way  of  visiting  him.  By  the  end  of  the 
second  week,  his  solitude  was  as  perfect  as  evenjie  could 
wish. 

If  he  thought  of  America,  it  was  only  when  reviewing 
the  world  which  he  had  left.  He  wrote  methodically  to 
Tom  and  Janet,  though.  He  sent  toys  of  native  struct 
ure  to  the  baby.  He  wished  he  could  have  seen  the 
baby  and  Tom  and  Janet  again.  "Could  have."  It 
was  always  that  now.  He  wished  that  they  could  have 
seen  Her.  He  felt  that  they  would  have  appreciated  her. 
With  a  sense  of  proprietorship,  woeful  in  its  tenderness,  he 
could  still  thrill  with  pride  in  her.  Then,  do  what  he 
could,  he  would  visualize  her  —  to  send  his  face  down  into 
his  hard-pressing  hands.  If  only  he  could  forget  what 
alone  now  sustained  him  —  her  eyes,  wet  with  her  un 
checked  tears!  He  must  hear  of  her!  Some  one  must 
tell  him,  even  the  least  word!  He  would  write  to 
Greg! 

He  wrote  that  evening  the  shortest  of  letters,  for  he 
wrote  only  to  induce  a  reply: 

"I  am  at  Kimberley,  Greg.  I  could  not  stay  in  Durban.  If  you  need 
me,  wire  me,  and.  I  will  come.  Otherwise,  I  shall  stay  here  until  It 
comes  for  me,'' 


242  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

Then,  because  he  was  not  sure  that  Greg  would  consider 
that  this  demanded  an  answer,  he  added: 

"Shall  I  close  out  our  business  there,  or  will  you  keep  it  along  your 
self?" 

Then  he  signed  his  name,  and  mailed  the  letter  with  his 
own  hands  immediately. 

He  knew  the  mails  and  the  distance,  and  told  himself 
that  he  should  have  Greg's  answer  in  five  days,  possibly 
in  four. 

Ten  days  after  he  had  mailed  his  own  letter,  he  wrote 
again: 

"Over  a  week  ago,  I  wrote,  but  have  had  no  word  from  you.  What's 
the  trouble,  Greg?  I  said  I'd  come  down,  if  you  needed  me." 

And  to  this  he  added : 

"Letter  must  have  reached  you,  for  it  has  not  come  back  to  me." 

Probably,  this  second  letter  would  meet  Greg's  reply 
to  the  first,  en  route.  Four  days,  again,  if  it  didn't.  At 
the  longest,  five. 

He  made  no  pretence  of  working,  now.  Day  and  night 
he  clung  to  the  shack  of  sheet  iron,  where  umJacobi  would 
find  him  the  instant  the  letter  came.  But  would  it  come? 
The  question,  so  often  forced  back,  remained  after  the 
long  day,  which  marked  the  end  of  his  fourth  week  at 
Kimberley.  And,  the  instant  the  interrogation  had  taken 
root,  he  knew  the  answer:  that  Greg's  letter  would  not 
come. 

For  what  could  Greg  write,  beyond  a  mere  acknowledg 
ment  of  the  letters?  And  how  idle  it  had  been  to  offer 
to  come,  when  the  need  came!  The  need  would  come 


KIMBERLEY  243 

without  so  much  as  one  warning  word.  And  knowing 
this,  Greg  had  let  the  letters  pass  without  comment  or  even 
acknowledgement.  That  he  could  do  this  showed  how, 
since  his  marriage,  Greg  had  moved  apart  from  him. 

The  big  man  had  not  detected  the  divergence  before; 
but  he  saw  it  at  last,  and,  with  it,  an  hundred  other  evi 
dences,  all  marking  Bradbroke's  graduation  from  his 
oversight.  He  was  keeping  his  word:  he  was  living  in 
the  present  and  for  it.  His  recklessness  revealed  itself 
still  more  to  the  big  man  now.  Yes,  that  was  it:  Greg's 
careless  optimism  was  sheer,  mad  recklessness.  He  would 
call  Greg  and  Anne  up  by  telephone. 

He  went  to  the  club,  and  sat  staring  at  the  booth,  in 
which  some  one  was  standing.  While  he  waited,  several 
men  came  in,  strangers;  and  one,  brown  and  lean,  was 
telling  of  the  up-country : 

"Nothing  like  it  in  the  world,"  the  lean,  brown,  young 
fellow  was  saying;  "been  riding  transport  for  two  months. 
Nothing  like  it !  Nothing  in  the  world :  I  tell  you,  when 
you're  lying  under  your  wagon-box,  in  your  rubber  sheets, 
with  a  good  man  beside  you  and  a  good  bit  of  tobacco  in 
your  pipe,  you  wouldn't  change  places  with  the  King,  no, 
not  with  the  King,  himself,  by  Gad!"  He  went  on, 
"Nothing  to  check  you!  No  one  to  stand  over  you!  No 
one  to  tell  you  what!  You're  your  own  man!  The  high 
veldt's  all  around  you,  and  the  night  and  the  wind  and  the 
deluge  of  water,  thundering  down  on  your  wagon-top, 
and  may  be  even  sluicing  through  the  cracks!  Nothing 
like  it,  I  tell  you.  Nothing  in  the  world!" 

The  big  man  turned  away.  It  was  incredible,  insup 
portable  that  any  man  could  find  the  world  like  that ! 


244  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

The  man  in  the  telephone  booth  came  out.  The  booth 
was  the  American's  if  he  wanted  it.  He  did  not  want  it. 
What  could  he  say  to  Greg,  after  that  brown  young  fellow 
had  told  of  thinking  the  world  like  that?  Nothing! 
He'd  go  back  to  the  shack.  And  week  followed  week,  and 
month  came  on  month.  It  was  July,  the  beginning  of  the 
African  winter.  He  had  been  three  months  at  Kim- 
berley,  without  change  in  his  situation,  and  without  one 
word  from  Greg. 

Then,  returning  from  the  Fields,  one  late  afternoon, 
he  went  to  the  club  for  a  glance  at  the  periodicals.  It 
had  been  long  since  he  had  read  so  much  as  a  newspaper, 
and  he  walked  slowly  two  thirds  minded  to  keep  straight 
on  home  and  go  to  bed.  But  he  turned  in  at  the  club, 
and,  as  he  entered,  through  the  crowd  of  men  standing 
and  sitting,  he  was  aware  that  one  of  them  looked  at  him, 
turned,  and  slowly  walked  away.  It  was  crudely  done: 
one  glance  was  enough  to  show  him  Hammerstone;  and, 
in  another  moment,  the  American's  card  was  in  the  hands 
of  a  "boy,"  with  the  affirmation  that  the  writer  would  see 
Doctor  Hammerstone  at  once  in  the  second  smoking- 
room. 

It  was  a  long  moment,  before  Hammerstone  came,  and, 
when  he  did,  it  was  with  obvious  unwillingness:  his  face 
lacked  colour,  his  hands  were  gripless,  his  back  was  bent. 
Cursed  as  the  big  man  was,  he  looked  twice  the  larger  and 
stronger,  though  Hammerstone  himself  was  large. 

"Nerves,"  the  American  said  to  himself,  as  their  eyes 
met.  The  layman  was  diagnosing  the  doctor.  Aloud, 
he  said,  "How  long  have  you  been  up  here,  Hammer- 
stone?  " 


KIMBERLEY  245 

"Only  a  few  days."  The  voice  was  weak,  too.  What 
had  come  over  him?  He  was  speaking  again,  still  weakly. 
"How  long  have  you  been  here  yourself?" 

The  American  met  his  eyes.  "  I've  been  here  a  bit  over 
three  months,"  he  said. 

Hammerstone  nodded.     "Interesting." 

They  were  not  getting  on  at  all,  and  the  big  man  hauled 
out  a  chair  for  him,  beginning  again.  "How  did  you 
leave ?" 

But  Hammerstone  shook  his  head.  "Thanks  very 
much,  but  I'm  off  directly,  and  shan't  sit  down."  He 
glanced  at  his  watch,  then  held  out  his  hand  with  a 
strange  formality.  "I'm  off  north,  now;  but  I'll  make  it  a 
point  to  stop  off  on  the  run  back.  I  —  I  —  I'd  no  idea 
you  were  here." 

He  turned  to  the  door,  and  the  crowd,  but  the  American 
crossed  the  space  before  he  could  reach  either.  "You 
don't  act  like  yourself !  What's  wrong,  Hammerstone?  I 
know  it's  odd  for  me  to  say  this;  but  that's  it:  you  don't 
seem  yourself.  What's  wrong?" 

They  were  facing  each  other  full  now,  and  the  big  man 
studied  the  doctor,  less  able,  each  instant,  to  understand 
what  could  have  come  over  him:  he  had  never  seen  the 
other  so  well-dressed  as  now,  never  so  obviously  pros 
perous.  Yes,  that  was  it:  Hammerstone  had  arrived 
financially,  he  had  landed  very  hard,  somewhere.  Every 
thing  but  his  face,  voice,  physique  and  eyes,  spoke  the 
prosperous.  So  what  was  bothering  him? 

"Can't  you  speak?"  demanded  the  big  man.  Uncon 
sciously,  his  voice  had  become  a  command,  which  his  eyes 
backed  up.  "Did  you  come  straight  here  from  Durban? 


246  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

I'm  here  until  It  hits  me,  the  Thing  that's  already  taken 
Fraser  and  Chadwell  and  Paxton  and  Carstairs."  The 
doctor  started  back  from  him.  "Why  do  you  do  that, 
Hammerstone?  You're  familiar  enough  with  the  facts! 
You  almost  got  in  on  it  yourself,  but  you're  being 
in  the  next  room  saved  you.  As  it  was,  your  nearest 
knowing  came  when  you  tried  to  bring  back  Jem 
Fraser.  When  did  you  see  Greg,  and  how  was  he?  Tell 
me  that!" 

Hammerstone  put  his  hand  on  his  chin.  Automati 
cally,  he  had  gone  back  to  the  professional  attitude.  But 
the  professional  air  stopped  there. 

"I  —  I  -  Yes.  I  came  here  straight  from  Durban. 
I  saw  —  Greg  —  I 

"When  did  you  see  him?"  The  American  came  a 
step  closer.  "I  tell  you  I'm  to  be  the  next  one  after  he's 
taken!  How  was  he?  You  can't  wonder  that  I  want  to 
know ! " 

Hammerstone's  hand  still  clung  to  his  chin,  his  eyes 
going  'round  and  'round,  then  fixing  like  an  imbecile's. 

The  big  man  caught  his  arm.  "  Come  out  of  this  dream ! 
Tell  me  how  he  was!" 

"He  —  appeared  normal  —  when  I  saw  him."  But 
that  was  the  limit  of  Hammerstone's  capacity:  with  the 
last  word,  he  tore  himself  from  the  big  man  and  plunged 
into  the  crowd  which  blocked  the  windows  commanding 
the  suddenly  dark  street. 

"When  I  saw  him."  The  big  man  kept  saying  Ham 
merstone's  words  over  and  over.  Something  had  hap 
pened.  He  knew  —  or  felt  that  he  knew  that  Greg  could 
not  already  have  been  claimed  for  Anne  or  the  Netherbys 


KIMBERLEY  247 

would  have  wired  immediately.  So  what ?  As  he 

crossed  the  room  and  skirted  the  edge  of  the  crowd  to 
make  the  doorway,  a  man  was  saying: 

"Where's  Clavering?  Just  leaving,  you  say?  Tell 
him  he  mustn't.  There's  a  cracking  storm  blowing  up, 
and  he'd  best  stay  inside!" 

"He's  started  already,"  some  one  called.  "Saw  him 
go.  Gad!  what  a  flash!"  He  was  right:  for  an  instant 
the  room  seemed  full  of  putty-faced  images,  and  itself 
on  fire.  The  puff  of  a  giant  flashlight  set  for  the  taking 
of  some  vast  picture!  A  crash  rocked  the  house.  Then, 
flash  and  sound  were  gone. 

"Better  not,  if  you  ask  me,"  some  one  said  to  the  big 
man,  as  he  turned  from  the  door:  "it's  nasty  out  there, 
for  even  here!" 

A  second  crash  drowned  the  words  and  showed  him  the 
door-knob,  and  the  lightning,  shimmery  and  unbelievably 
bright,  hung  on  the  path  ahead.  Immediately  before 
him,  he  saw  another  figure,  seemingly  as  heedless  as  him 
self  of  the  dazzle  and  incredible  cannonade.  "Clavering," 
thought  the  big  man.  "Whoever  that  is,"  he  supplied 
in  the  next  suspense  between  shattering  crashes,  "  the  man 
those  two  were  saying  ought  not  to  have  started  out." 
In  the  black  gloom  and  the  descending  almost-solid  of 
water,  he  could  see  nothing  —  seemed  blind;  then  the 
eerie  night  would  be  turned  into  far  more  eerie  day,  and 
he  would  see  the  tall,  lean,  erect,  young  figure  stalking  on 
as  before,  resolute  to  the  point  of  open  defiance,  grandly 
arrogant. 

The  big  man  was  gaining,  but  increased  his  stride:  he 
felt  that  he  must  overtake  the  other  at  once.  He  walked 


248  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

still  faster,  ran  in  upon  him;  at  a  rod's  distance  waited  a 
crash,  then  burst  his  voice  through: 

"Clavering!" 

The  man  turned  the  brown  face  seen  at  the  club. 

Then,  something  broke  in  the  sky  and  hit  the  man  in  his 
brown  face,  to  fasten  forever  that  frank  smile  of  greeting 
on  the  memory  of  the  big  man  who  staggared  up  in  time 
to  catch  the  rigid  body  in  his  arms. 

Too  late  to  save  him,  he  knew,  as  the  glare  played  on 
him,  and  the  brimstone  suffocated  him,  and  the  volcanic 
vibrations  almost  brought  him  down!  And  he  thought 
with  sadness  of  that  fine,  brave,  arrogant,  young,  gone 
life:  the  pity  it  was  that  he  himself,  with  his  hell,  could 
not  have  been  struck  down,  and  Clavering,  the  man  with 
the  happy  world,  allowed  to  live ! 

He  said  that  to  the  men  he  carried  Clavering's  body 
back  to,  at  the  club,  then  left  them,  without  reply,  to 
reenter  the  glittering  tumult. 

"The  shack,  first,"  he  said  to  himself,  "then  the  train 
to  Durban." 


CHAPTER  XXX 
DURBAN 

SUDDENLY,  some  time  in  the  third  night,  he 
reached  it,  and  flung  himself  to  the  platform,  for 
which  he  had  searched  through  the  intervening 
miles.  Searched?  Had  he  not  watched,  staring  motion 
less  from  the  window,  seeing  nothing,  all  his  senses  turned 
into  the  single  one  of  striving  to  feel  the  approach  to 
Durban?  He  had  come  almost  without  luggage;  and  did 
not  wait  for  what  he  had. 

With  a  thrill  of  pleasure  which  mocked  his  knowledge 
he  passed  on  upward  through  the  familiar  streets.  He 
had  thought  to  try  Greg  at  the  Regent  first.  But 
even  the  club  was  dark,  when  he  reached  it;  and  he 
understood,  as  he  stared  at  his  watch:  it  was  nearly 
three.  Too  late  to  telephone  Greg  even  from  the  public 
booth!  And  he  turned  toward  the  rooms  which  he  still 
called  his. 

He  was  right  in  his  denomination:  the  woman,  who  let 
him  in  and  welcomed  him  from  her  refuge  in  the  darkness, 
told  him  that  he  might  go  up  at  once.  She  had  expected 
him. 

He  turned,  halfway  up.  Had  Mr.  Bradbroke  asked  for 
him? 

The  woman  was  silent,  reflecting.  He  could  see  her 
dim  outline  behind  the  lamp. 

249 


250  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

Yes,  Mr.  Bradbroke  had  come  once.  The  morning 
afterward. 

"After  what?" 

"After  you  went  away,  sir." 

"But  only  once?  Didn't  he  ask  where  I'd  gone  and 
when  I'd  be  back?" 

No,  he  had  not  done  either.  He  had  come  once,  and 
gone  away.  That  was  some  time  ago.  She  was  sure  he 
had  not  come  again. 

"Good-night,"  he  said,  from  the  landing.  And,  as  he 
climbed  the  second  flight,  he  thought,  "I  wonder  who 
told  him  where  I'd  gone.  He  must  have  found  out  at  once 
to  have  gone  away  so  satisfied.  He  must  have  known 
even  before  I  wrote  him  that  first  letter  from  Kimberley." 
He  still  believed  that  Greg  had  not  yet  been  taken, 
"for,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he  had  said  before,  "Anne 
and  the  Netherbys  would  have  wired  me  if  anything 
had  happened  to  him.  My  letters  to  him  of  course  told 
them  where  I  was."  This  reasoning  satisfied  him  that 
Greg  had  not  died  yet.  But,  as  the  big  man  felt  for  the 
knob  of  hia  door,  in  the  dark  hallway,  he  went  back  to 
his  first  question  —  who  had  told  Greg  before  that  first 
letter  from  Kimberley.  The  rickshaw  "boy,"  probably. 

Well,  the  morning  would  tell.  Once  in  the  doorway, 
he  scatched  a  match,  lifted  it,  and  looked  around. 

If  he  had  expected  to  find  any  communication  from 
Bradbroke,  he  was  disappointed,  for  no  envelope  broke 
the  surface  of  the  narrow,  baize-covered  table.  He  saw 
the  worn,  comfortable  furniture  welcoming  him,  urging 
peace  .  .  .  the  pictures,  the  familiar  hangings;  the 
crisp,  cool  rugs;  the  book-shelves;  the  steins  on  the  mantel; 


DURBAN  251 

the  ash-trays  and  matches,  waiting,  ready  as  always,  for 
his  hand.  How  good  it  was  to  be  back!  How  familiar! 
By  heaven!  he  might  have  come  in  from  the  absence  only 
of  an  hour!  And  he  sighed,  as  he  turned  the  key  in  the 
lock,  making  doubly  sure  his  seclusion  with  these  mute 
things,  which  told  him  that  they  had  not  changed. 

He  went  to  the  window,  and  the  soundless  swell  of  the 
Indian  Ocean  welcomed  him  back.  It,  too,  had  been  wait 
ing;  only  last  night,  or,  at  longest  the  night  before  that,  it 
had  breathed  on  him.  Would  nothing  dispel  the  delusion 
that  he  had  not  been  away?  Then,  his  eyes  groped  into 
their  old  direction  —  the  Netherbys',  and  that  told  him. 
With  a  groan,  he  turned  from  the  window:  yes,  he  had 
been  away. 

"Morning!"  he  cried  out,  in  his  heart.  "Morning!" 
The  bed  groaned  under  the  bulk  so  suddenly  launched  on 
it.  "Sleep,"  he  begged.  "Sleep!"  And  sleep,  at  last, 
and,  at  last  morning,  came. 

He  was  grateful  for  the  blessing  which  had  sealed  his 
lids  until  hours  after  sunrise:  he  had  required  that 
oblivion.  But,  when  he  realized  that  he  had  slept  seven 
hours  —  it  lacked  only  a  little  of  eleven  —  he  mourned 
wasted  time,  rushed  through  his  shaving  and  exercises, 
then  briefest  breakfast  at  the  little  cafe  —  unchanged  and 
thus  another  denial  of  his  absence  —  and  was  through 
almost  instantly,  and  paying  the  check  at  the  door. 

"No,"  the  stout  little  proprietor  said,  rubbing  his  hair 
back  from  his  serene  eyes,  "Mr.  Bradbroke  has  not  been 
there  in  three  months."  He  appealed  to  his  wife,  as  he 
shot  home  the  change  drawer  of  the  cash-register. 

"Not  in  three  months,  Mr.  Ormsby,"  she  echoed  regret- 


252  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

fully.  She  too,  was  fair-haired,  a  German.  "Or,"  she 
smiled,  in  her  large,  friendly  way,  "Mr.  Paxton  or  Mr. 
Chadwell.  Or  Mr.  Fraser  or  Mr.  Carstairs,"  she  went  on, 
parading  their  names  as  an  inducement  for  return  of  their 
patronage.  A  little  yard  had  been  bought,  now,  behind, 
and  tables  were  put  out,  in  fine  weather.  It  was  very 
comfortable.  He  could  see  it,  she  said,  from  the  window. 
He  did  see  it:  the  tables  were  already  out,  each  set  off  into 
squares  with  white  stones.  The  woman  went  on: 

"  If  you  should  see  Mr.  Bradbroke  and  Mr. 

He  swung  through  the  door,  followed  a  little  space  by 
the  guttural,  friendly  voices,  as  he  faced  away  toward  the 
bungalow. 

A  thousand  things  crowded  his  thoughts,  as  he  followed 
the  way,  among  them  that  he  should  make  the  best  ex 
planation  he  could  to  Greg  and  then  propitiate  Anne, 
forgetting  her  injustice,  and  remembering  that  she  held 
him  an  unfeeling  adventurer,  whom  she  had  rated  much 
too  highly,  or  a  monster  of  cruelty  whom  she  could  not 
rate  too  low.  .  .  .  And  Greg  would  help  him  in  this. 
If  he  could  see  Greg  for  a  moment  before  having  to  face 
Anne 

He  had  walked  very  swiftly,  and  the  crunch  of  gravel 
under  his  feet  interrupted  him.  He  passed  through  the 
gate,  and  still  more  swiftly  up  the  drive.  He  raised  his 
eyes,  and  his  heart  leaped.  He  stood  motionless  on  the 

piazza.     The  last  time  that  he  had  stood  there Oh, 

he  knew  that  she  had  gone  at  his  entreaty:  he  had  stood 
on  the  dock-head  and  seen  her  go.  Yet,  once,  he  had 
stood  here  and  told  her  his  love  for  her  and  kissed  her  as 
he  held  her  in  his  arms.  Great  God  in  heaven 


DURBAN  253 

The  sound  of  a  step  sent  him  rigid.  No  need  for  his 
heart  to  wait:  it  was  a  servant,  whom  he  did  not  recognize. 

"Mr.  Ormsby,"  the  man  echoed,  "to  see  Mr.  Brad- 
broke,  sir?" 

"Mr.  Bradbroke  or  Mrs.  Bradbroke.  Either  one  of 
them." 

"Beg  pardon,  sir.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bradbroke  went  home 
three  months  ago." 

"England?"     Just  the  one  word. 

"Three  months,  sir.  The  place  is  to  be  let,  sir.  Might 
be  you  would  care  to  see  it:  twenty  acres,  and  the  out 
buildings,  and  — 

The  big  man  turned,  without  a  word,  down  the  drive. 
The  thing  for  him  to  do  was  to  see  the  Netherbys.  The 
demented  mutterings  which  he  had  just  listened  to  meant 
nothing.  He  should  tell  Lady  Netherby  that  he  had 
been  at  Kimberley  and  written  Greg  from  there.  Just 
say  that  he  "had  written."  There  would  be  no  need  of 
saying  that  he  had  written  twice.  And  she  would  tell 
him  where  Greg  and  Anne  were  and  why  they  had  given 
up  the  bungalow. 

There  the  house  was  now! 

For  an  instant,  at  his  first  sight  of  it,  he  reflected  that 
the  Netherbys  too  might  have  gone.  But  a  second,  and 
closer,  scrutiny  reassured  him:  the  lattices  leaned;  and  the 
note  of  a  song  fell  softly  on  his  ear.  In  another  moment 
he  had  mounted  the  steps  to  stand  mute,  for  the  name 
ZELIG  stared  at  him  on  a  new,  brass  plate,  on  the  door. 

"  Zelig?  "  he  asked  duUy.  "  Zelig  ?  "  Was  he  as  mad  as 
that? 

" Madame  Zelig,"  a  voice  said.  "You  don't  remember?  " 


254  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

The  doorway  had  suddenly  framed  Catherine  Heth- 
eridge,  smiling  impersonally,  with  her  old,  characteristic 
abstraction.  And  there  was  more  curiosity  than  invita 
tion  in  her,  "Come  in?" 

"All  the  world's  gone  mad,"  he  confided  studying  her 
sullenly. 

"And  you've  only  just  discovered  that?"  she  derided. 
"The  madame's  out.  You  may  as  well  come  in."  She 
might  have  been  a  servant,  and  he  an  intimate,  a  relative, 
or  an  enemy.  "I've  expected  you,"  she  went  on,  as 
remotely  as  ever.  She  came  a  step  closer,  no  longer  aloof. 
"You  didn't  know  they'd  gone?"  He  seemed  hardly  to 
hear.  "They've  all  gone,  Anne,  Greg,  and  the  Netherbys 
• — all  of  them." 

"When?"  he  demanded. 

She  reflected,  or  seemed  to  reflect,  her  handsome  head 
supported,  as,  on  the  first  evening,  by  her  beautifully 
rounded  arm.  "I  think  it  was  the  next  day  or  two  after 
you  left  —  Durban." 

He  ignored  her  calculated  pause,  and  said  nothing. 
There  was  nothing  he  could  say.  There  was  little  enough 
that  he  could  think  —  beyond  the  still  unbelievable  fact 
that  Greg  could  have  gone  without  telling  him,  and,  even 
above  that,  gone  to 

Catherine  followed  his  thoughts.  "It's  singular  that 
he  didn't  write  you."  Then,  suddenly,  "What  made  you 
come  back?" 

"I  saw  Hammerstone.  It  was  at  Kimberley."  He 
nodded  his  head  slowly  to  himself.  "I  went  there  from 
here.  I'd  been  there  ever  since.  Hammerstone  acted 
as  if  something  had  happened,  down  here."  He  kept  his 


DURBAN  255 

eyes  on  her  because  she  chanced  to  be  standing  directly 
in  front  of  him.  "Greg  didn't  tell  me  that  he  had  gone,  or 
was  going.  He  —  I  had  not  word  from  him."  Again, 
he  nodded  to  himself.  Then  as  if  suddenly  becoming 
aware  of  her.  "I  was  back  living  where  I  was  before,  in 
the  sheet-iron  shack  at  —  Kimberley." 

It  may  have  been  his  simplicity  and  strength.  It  may 
have  been  his  reference  to  the  shack  of  sheet-iron.  Or  it 
may  have  been  his  listlessness,  which,  in  such  a  man,  told, 
as  nothing  else  could  have  told,  his  suffering.  But  what 
ever  the  cause,  the  tears  welled  to  the  lashes  of  her  strange 
eyes. 

"Don't!  oh,  don't!"  she  pleaded.  "Why  don't  you 
tell  me  what  it  is?  I  know  that  you  loved  each  other. 
No,"  as  his  hand  went  out,  "why  shouldn't  I  say  it? 
It's  the  greatest  glory  of  her  life,  though  she  went 
away!" 

He  looked  down  at  her:  "She  went  because  I  asked  her 
to.  There  was  no  other  way." 

Eyes  wide,  she  started  back.  "You  don't  mean,  you 
can't  mean,  that ?" 

He  shook  his  head  wearily.  "Not  that  or  anything  like 
it,  though  I  am  barred  as  effectually." 

Joy  filled  her  eyes. 

"I  am  glad,  glad,  glad!"  Her  hands  pressed  her  face, 
covering  the  strange  eyes,  now  wonderously  softened. 
"Ah!"  she  cried  again,  "I  am  glad!" 

Motionless  as  a  statue,  he  inclined  his  head. 

"Thanks,"  he  said,  in  a  monotone  so  lifeless  that  it 
would  have  killed  her,  if  she  had  cherished  even  the  most 
trifling  illusion  regarding  him:  "it's  no  end  good  of  you." 


256  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

He  turned  toward  the  door.     "Mighty  glad  to  have  seen 
you,"  he  began. 

She  dashed  aside  his  abstraction.  "Yes,  let's  go  out: 
I  can't  stand  this,  in  here."  She  led  the  way  to  the  hall, 
and  caught  up  a  sunshade.  "Come,"  she  said,  "off  some 
where,  where  we  can  talk!" 

He  had  seen  her  like  this  only  once  before;  and,  as  they 
descended  to  the  path,  which  followed  the  drive,  he  lifted 
his  thoughts  to  her  laboriously  from  the  dream  into  which 
he  had  been  settling.  So  that  it  was  with  something  like 
his  old  manner  that  he  held  the  gate  for  her,  stepping 
back  for  her  to  pass. 

"It  hit  me,"  he  said;  "I  mean,  when  I  found  they'd 
gone.  I  wanted  —  you  know,"  he  went  on  with  an  almost 
boyish  earnestness.  "I've  been  away  so  long,  and  I 
wanted  to  hear  them  talk  of  Her.  I  wanted  to  ask  them 
about  Her.  You  don't  know  what  it  would  have  meant 
—  what  it  means  to  me  to  talk  with  you  of  Her,"  he 
finished,  still  blindly,  unwittingly  merciless. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "of  course."  She  loved  him  so  much 
that,  if,  to  talk  of  the  young,  English  girl  helped  him,  she 
stood  ready  to  endure.  "Yes,"  she  said  again,  after  a 
little.  And,  again,  after  another  interval,  through  which 
his  words  flowed  on,  "Yes."  She  wondered,  as  she  heard 
him  resume,  what  she  had  done  to  suffer  so.  Eyes  down 
cast,  sad  as  his  own,  she  carried  her  graceful  height  beside 
him,  walking,  as,  but  a  short  time  before,  he  had  stood  — 
in  a  dream. 

Suddenly,  she  realized  that  the  timbre  of  his  voice  had 
altered.  "I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  was  saying  quickly 
and  guardedly,  "but  — that  large  woman,  there,  in  the 


DURBAN  257 

carriage!"  He  filled  his  pause  in  with  a  gesture.  "I 
think  she  wants  to  speak  to  you." 

Catherine  leaned  as  if  something  had  struck  her. 
"Yes,  yes,"  she  repeated,  after  one  look  in  the  direction 
he  gave  her.  "Yes,"  she  said  still  again.  She  was  stand 
ing  uncertainly. 

They  waited.  The  large  woman  had  stopped  her  car 
riage  and  was  leaning  toward  them. 

"Miss  Hetheridge!"  That  was  all.  But  her  heavy- 
lidded,  cloudy  eyes  were  confident.  And  she  was  so 
gross,  so  uncouth,  so  unimaginably  vulgar.  "Catherine," 
she  said,  with  intimacy. 

The  big  man  stepped  closer  to  the  girl.  "Don't  worry, 
though  of  course  I  know  who  she  is,"  his  big  shoulder  at 
Catherine's  side  seemed  to  say. 

Perhaps  she  heard  its  promise'of  protection,  for  her  face 
flamed.  She  drew  away  from  him.  "Shall  I  drive  you 
home?"  he  heard  her  ask  the  bearded  giantess  in  the 
ornate  carriage.  "Now?" 

Catherine  was  following  her  voice  to  the  side  of  the 
carriage,  but  the  big  hand,  which  went  with  the  big 
shoulder,  deliberately  swept  her  back.  "Drive  on," 
the  American  told  the  coachman  with  crude,  irresistible 
directness.  And  the  man  drove  on. 

She  wheeled  on  him.  "That  was  Madame  Zelig:  It 
means "  Her  eyes  were  wide. 

He  shook  his  head  slowly.  "  It  means  that  you'll  never 
see  her  again.  Once  I  offered  you  enough  money  to  take 
you  to  England  and  let  you  live  the  rest  of  your  life  there, 
and  you  wouldn't  take  it.  This  time,  you're  going  to. 
Cry,  if  you  want  to,  for  it  won't  make  any  difference  how 


258  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

many  of  these  people  here  see  you:  you'll  be  gone  on  the 
steamer  by  midnight,  and  never'll  see  any  of  them  again!" 

His  voice  was  very  deep  and  kind,  as  kind  as  the  strong 
hand  which  patted  her  shoulder  as  if  she  had  been  a  weep 
ing  child.  "You  go  to  the  Barns',  now,"  he  went  on. 
"Lady  Barn's  all  right  and  you'll  never  see  much  of  her 
either.  Tell  her  you've  been  left  a  pot  of  money.  I'll 
get  it,  and  bring  it  in  shape  you  can  easily  carry.  The 
Bams'll  take  you  to  the  boat  to-night." 

She  looked  at  him,  her  lips  moving. 

"You'll  never  see  me  again,  after  it,"  he  went  on,  very 
straight  out  and  simple,  "  so  you  needn't  feel  any  embar 
rassment;  or  obligation  either:  I'll  be  done  with  this 
world  inside  six  months." 

There  was  nothing  to  make  him  understand  the  tremor 
which  wrung  her  shoulders. 

"Run  along  to  the  Barns'  now.  Come!  No,  you'd 
better  go  alone.  I'll  be  along,  just  to  say  good-bye  to 
them,  and  find  you  there.  That'll  be  just  half  an  hour 
from  now." 

And  he  left  her  standing,  tall,  slight,  and  shaken,  before 
she  could  deny  a  word. 

He  judged  rightly  that  she  must  be  given  no  time  to 
recover  herself;  and  he  made  the  bank  quickly,  drawing 
out,  in  the  most  easily  portable  form,  what  he  designed 
for  her.  So  that  it  was  not  half  an  hour,  but  a  quarter, 
when  he  was  received  by  Lady  Bam,  and,  pleading  an 
immediate  duty  at  Kimberley,  completed  his  farewells. 
As  he  rose  to  go,  he  shook  hands,  all  'round. 

The  girl's  face  was  drawn,  as  he  stood  before  her,  saying 
lightly: 


DURBAN  259 

"By  the  way,  this  will  give  you  a  good  idea  of  my  house 
up  there:  some  reporter's  got  it  in  here.  Just  a  cut,  but 
it  shows  it."  He  gave  her  a  folded  newspaper.  .  .  . 
"Look  it  over,  when  you've  time.  Good-bye." 

She  drew  back,  for  the  first  time  understanding  the 

mode  of  transfer  he  had  selected.  "I "  She  shook 

her  head. 

He  almost  laughed,  as  he  caught  her  hand  and  forced 
her  slender  fingers  about  the  thick  paper.  "I  told  you 
I'd  give  it  to  you,  and  I  always  keep  my  word." 

Then  he  was  gone,  after  a  last  word  to  the  amused  Lady 
Bam,  who  had  always  liked  him,  finding  him,  as  she  was 
so  fond  of  saying,  "  so  simple  and  strong  and  picturesque." 

And,  in  her  room  of  Lady  Barn's  lending,  the  girl  sat 
dry-eyed.  She  saw  not  the  fortune,  which  had  come  to  her 
from  the  one  man  in  the  world  from  whom  she  could  have 
accepted  it,  but  a  smudgy  woodcut  of  a  shack  of  sheet- 
iron  on  the  outskirts  of  Kimberley,  and,  from  the  smudgy 
cut,  to  a  note,  which  read: 

"By  taking  this,  and  going  back  to  England,  you  make  happier  the 
few  weeks  or  months  of  life  which  remain  to  me." 

It  was  not  signed.    There  was  no  need  of  signature.    She 
bent  her  head,  and  raised  the  note  to  her  lips. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 
ADRIFT 

HE  HAD  written  her  that  her  acquiescence  made 
him  happier.     But  he  scanned  the  paper  next 
morning,  with  an  uncertainty  which  amounted  to 
anxiety;  and  his  relief  tarried  until  he  found  her  name  in 
the  list  of  those  who  had  sailed,  the  midnight  before,  for 
home. 

It  was  done,  then.     And  he  threw  the  paper  from  him 

satisfied. 

How  strange  it  was,  he  thought,  that  he  had  kept  his 
word,  now,  all  'round:  he  had  promised  Her  to  help  Greg 
and  Anne  so  that  they  could  marry  and  go  back  to  Eng 
land;  he  had  promised  himself  that  he  would  secure  Her 
own  escape  from  South  Africa;  and  he  had  told  Catherine 
Hetheridge  that  he  would  give  her  money  enough  to  take 
her,  too,  back  there  and  let  her  live  instead  of  riveting  her 
bondage  to  the  Jewess,  Madame  Zelig,  by  marriage  with 
Beaconsfield  Zelig,  the  Jew.  All  these  promises  were  now 
facts  accomplished:  he  had  kept  his  word. 

And,  because  there  was  some  comfort,  even  to  him,  in 
this,  he  could  dwell  on  Greg's  evacuation  from  a  new,  and, 
he  felt,  a  saner,  viewpoint.  ...  At  least,  that  re 
turn,  however  unheralded  to  himself,  now  seemed  far  less 
unaccountable.  For,  after  all,  why  should  not  Greg  have 
gone.  It  was  perfectly  consistent  with  all  that  he  had 

260 


ADRIFT  261 

done  since  his  marriage,  yes,  with  the  fact  of  the  marriage 
itself:  he  was  still  living,  and,  while  he  lived,  lived  for  the 
present.  The  certainty  of  the  Fate,  which  gaped  for  him, 
and  would  soon  attain  him,  had  made  him  utterly  des 
perate;  and  this  desperation  had  given  his  weak  nature 
almost  the  semblance  of  hardihood: 

It  was  as  if  Greg  had  said:  "I'll  do  as  I  like  until 
YOU  come  for  me!"  It  was  sheer  madness,  one  with  the 
splendid  arrogance  of  that  fine,  brown-faced,  dead,  young 
Clavering,  who,  like  another  not  more  confident  in  his 
strength,  had  dared,  with  the  same  result,  the  darts  of 
Jove.  But  it  was  Greg's  way.  And,  as  he  reviewed  it,  the 
big  man  saw  that  he  himself  had  been  hardly  less  defiant: 
he  had  deserted  and  left  open  to  danger  Gregory  Brad- 
broke,  The  Man  Between.  Moreover,  he  could  not  blame 
Greg  for  going  without  warning  him,  for,  before  that,  he 
himself  had  gone  without  warning,  and,  even  had  made 
a  secrefof  his  refuge.  He  had  been  two  weeks  at  Ember- 
ley  before  writing  that  letter  which,  with  the  one  that  had 
followed  it,  had  been  forwarded,  in  Durban's  slow  course 
of  business,  to  Greg  in  England.  That  meant  three 
weeks  more  before  Greg  had  received  it;  and  another 
three  weeks  or  four  before  an  answer  could  come,  even  if 
sent  at  once.  Yes,  Greg's  desertion  and  silence  were 
clearing  up  now.  Probably  a  letter  from  Greg  was  wait 
ing  for  him  now,  at  Kimberley. 

He  started  within  the  hour.  It  had  taken  only  a  small 
part  of  that  hour  to  find  a  purchaser  for  the  Australian 
wool  business,  at  the  price  at  which  the  big  man  offered  it. 
After  that,  he  had  seen  his  bankers,  and  given  Kimberley 
again,  as  the  address  to  which  his  mail  should  be  forwarded. 


262  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

But  no  letter  waited  him  from  Greg.  Nothing.  And 
if  he  had  counted  on  finding  Kimberley  endurable,  one 
glance  showed  him  the  truth!  Not  even  the  shack  of 
sheet  iron  now  was  within  his  power,  he  saw  after  nights 
and  days  of  denials. 

What  was  the  use  of  denying? 

"None,"  he  said  to  himself  at  last,  "for  me,  none  in  this 
world." 

"Where  now?"  he  asked  of  the  stars  which  gemmed 
the  vault,  arching  limitless  over  him.  Then,  he  turned 
back  into  the  sheet-iron  shack,  and  closed  the  door.  Far 
into  the  night,  by  the  flickering,  paraffine  lamp,  he  wrote 
to  Her,  page  on  page,  over  which  he  traced  the  never-to- 
be-told  story  of  his  love.  Far  on  into  the  night,  to  the 
morning,  to  be  hardly  aware  that  he  had  ceased  writing, 
when  umJacobi  came,  timidly  to  wake  him,  bowed  over 
the  story  he  had  told. 

"  Letters,  chief,"  said  the  Zulu  to  the  big  man. 

"Letters?"  Then,  he  caught  them  to  him,  held  them 
—  until  his  mad  hope  died:  they  were  not  from  Her,  but 
Greg! 

There  were  many  of  them.  It  seemed  that,  once  Greg 
had  begun  writing,  his  need  of  communicating  with  the 
American  had  leaped,  full-grown.  And  he  arranged  them 
according  to  their  dates  of  transmission,  and  read  them 
slowly  through: 

The  first  one  was  headed  "Durban,"  and  dated  the 
night  Greg  had  found  that  the  American  had  gone  away. 
It  was  as  close  to  conversation  as  any  letter  could  hope  or 
dread  being,  for  it  dwelt,  in  detail,  on  things  immaterial. 
Moreover,  it  came  back  and  back  and  back  to  the  fact 


ADRIFT  263 

of  the  big  man's  desertion  as  a  thing  incredible.  Then, 
plunge  after  plunge  into  the  inevitable  result  of  the  writer's 
now  being  left  alone.  And,  through  all  and  in  all,  the 
question,  soon  a  desperate  demand,  to  know  where  the 
American  was,  and  when  he  should  return. 

The  next  letter  had  been  written  next  day,  and  was 
even  more  incoherent  than  the  first:  the  same  mad  reit 
eration,  now  ending: 

"I  can't  even  mail  these,  for  I  don't  know  where  you  are!" 

In  the  next  letter,  Greg  wrote  that  they  were  going  to 
England.  It  might  be  that  he  could  last  long  enough  to 
get  there.  He  could  form  no  opinion  —  naturally.  But 
Durban,  now,  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  They  were  all 
going,  he  and  Anne  and  the  Netherbys. 

The  next  letter,  written  nearly  a  month  later,  told  of 
their  arrival  —  just  the  bare  fact  of  it,  then  resuming: 

"But  still  no  word!  In  God's  name,  Ormsby,  tell  me  where  you 
are!  I  can't  think  that  the  order's  been  changed,  and  that  you've 
gone  ahead  of  me." 

This,  in  varying  phraseology,  had  constituted  the  letter. 
He  said  nothing  of  England,  nothing  of  the  Netherbys, 
hardly  a  syllable  of  Anne.  Nothing  of  any  happiness 
at  their  return  to  the  land  they  had  sighed  for  so  long. 
And  the  big  man  understood.  Though  back  in  England, 
and  living  for  the  present  with  his  genuine  or  marvellously 
portrayed  bravado,  Greg  was  waiting,  too. 

The  next  letter  had  been  written  just  after  receiving 
Ormsby 's  first  letter,  from  Kimberley,  and  was  full  of 
remorse  and  bitterness :  what  must  he  have  seemed,  when 
his  defection,  was  known!  He  had  gone  to  England  be- 


264  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

cause  he  could  not  stay  longer  in  Durban,  no,  not  one 
hour  longer!  He  knew,  now,  that  he  had  been  beside 
himself.  But  England  had  seemed  the  only  place  left. 
Couldn't  he  see  that? 

And  the  big  man,  as  he  read,  inclined  his  head,  mutely. 
Yes,  he  understood: 

"You  will  wait  for  it  in  Kimberley,  then.  And  there  as  well  as 
anywhere.  Certainly  as  well  as  in  England!  England?  At  times,  I 
wish  to  God  I  were  back  there  in  Durban,  that  I  had  never  gone  from 
there!  For  even  here  I  can  see  only  that  Fiend  who  has  wrecked  us, 
Jem,  Hugh,  Brett  Paxton,  and  Carstairs,  picturing  the  inevitableness  of 
my  Fate  to  me  —  showing  me  all  that  I  have  lost!" 

On,  on,  he  had  written,  paragraph  following  paragraph, 
each  more  over-wrought  and  wild,  until  the  certainty  of 
his  Doom  seemed  to  have  bred  in  him  a  very  ecstasy,  such 
as  was  Fleeetwood's  through  his  dreams  of  Everlasting 
Fire. 

"Write  me  whatever  you  can.  When  you  have  ceased  to  hear  from 
me,  you  may  know  that  I  have  gone!" 

He  had  indeed  become  an  exhortor,  for  confession  and 
acceptance  of  his  doom  earned  no  relief  for  him: 

"It  is  inexorable  and  sure.  There  is  no  escape,"  he 
said  in  his  next  letter.  "Nor  are  we  granted  the  balm  of 
disbelief.  For  the  four  who  have  gone,  who  already  know 
peace,  are  sufficient  answer  even  to  us,  who  would  bribe 
ourselves,  if  we  could,  to  doubt,  that,  in  this  year  of 
Grace  Nineteen  Hundred  and  Thirteen,  a  Curse  has  come! 
Where  is  its  Seat?"  he  had  gone  on,  his  very  handwriting 
a  gesture  in  the  tenseness  of  his  arm."  By  heaven,  I  see 
in  this,  sometimes,  a  Warning  to  our  race,  short  from  the 
hateful,  hating  heart  of  Africa!  Yet  a  warning  to  our- 


ADRIFT  265 

selves  only,  more  sinister  from  Its  surety  that  our  brothers 
shall  not  profit  by  our  suffering.  For  who  would  believe 
us,  Ormsby,  if  we  shouted  our  secret  to  the  skies?  No 
one.  We  should  be  known  for  the  madmen  we  are,  made 
mad  by  a  truth  which  the  Sane  cannot  understand.  We 
should  say, 

' '  Death  is  fast  on  us.'    And  we  should  be  answered : 

"'Death  surely,  since  you  are  human  and  alive!' 

"'No,'  we  should  deny  then,  'not  that  death:  one 
leaping  closer  and  faster!' 

'"Then,  when  shall  you  die,'  they  would  ask  us.  And 
we  should  define  our  delusion  by  replying: 

'"Now,  to-day,  to-morrow,  a  week,  a  month,  a  year!' 
And  our  narrative  of  those  four  who  had  preceded  us, 
instead  of  earning  belief,  would  establish  our  complicity! " 

So  ended  the  letter,  as  if  mankind's  incredulity  had 
become  the  keenest  disappointment,  almost,  of  the  writer's 
life.  And  there  was  truth  in  that  dementia-won  conten 
tion,  the  big  man  admitted  to  himself:  their  secret  must  be 
kept  theirs  as  surely  as  their  fate  was  theirs.  All  else, 
including  the  hour  of  Its  coming,  was  uncertainty. 

Be  it  so,  then,  he  thought,  as  he  restored  the  last  of  the 
letters  to  its  envelope.  And  of  what  use  was  it  to  him  to 
stay  longer  at  Kimberley?  To  work?  No  for  work 
implied  the  upbuilding  of  that  he  worked  on;  and  up 
building  presupposed  a  to-morrow  definitely  to  be  his, 
and  he  had  not  that.  Not  work,  but  wandering,  then! 
There  were  lands  that  he  had  never  visited,  and  he  would 
go  to  them.  They  could  profit  him  nothing  beyond  the 
wearing  out  of  the  uncertain  days  which  remained  to  him. 
But  that  would  be  infinite  solace.  For  he  felt  very  weary, 


266  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

old  even.  He  seemed  to  be  looking  dimly  back  on  his 
reft  youth  and  dead  hopes  from  the  viewpoint  of  dreary 
centuries. 

He  would  go  out,  now,  go  where  he  would  in  the  world, 
give  himself  to  the  current  and  let  it  carry  him  where  it 
might.  And,  in  determining  this,  he  told  the  change 
which,  by  subtle  and  easy  degrees,  had  metamorphosed 
him;  he  had  elected  to  do  what,  six  months  back,  he  had 
scorned  others  for  doing;  he  would  now  live  only  for  the 
present  —  drift. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 
WITH  THE  CURRENT 

CHANGED  though  he  was,  he  did  not  give  himself 
to  the  Current  until  he  had  emptied  the  shack  of 
sheet  iron  of  what  he  wished  to  take  with  him, 
and  idly  told  to  what  next  point,  Durban,  his  mail  should 
be  forwarded.     He  meant  the  letters  from  Tom  and  Janet. 
Greg's  letters,  he  felt,  would  follow  him  automatically. 

Then  he  entered  a  carriage  of  the  first  train  south  and 
east,  his  next  stop  and  first  real  point  of  departure  —  since 
it  was  an  extensive  port  —  Cape  Town. 

Arrived  there,  he  looked  up  the  various  sailings.  First. 
the  White  Star: 

"Natal  to  London  Natal  to  Australia 

via  via 

Cape  Town  and  Cape  Town. 

Plymouth. 
Durban  to  London  about 

Dec.  23rd.         S.  S.  Africa,  11,984  tons March  3rd. 

Jan.  20th  April  1st. 

Feb.  17th  Dec.  8th." 

and  so  on  down  to: 

"THROUGH    FARES    TO    NEW   YORK.   BOSTON, 
PHILADELPHIA  or  BALTIMORE  quoted  on  application." 

And  he  wondered  how  he  had  been  able  to  read  it  so 
idly,  as  he  went  on: 

"  Accommodation  for  one  class  of  Passengers  only.  Fares  from  Natal 
to  London  or  Plymouth,  from  eighteen  to  twenty-four  Guineas;  from 

267 


268  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

Cape  Town  to  Australia,  from  fifteen  Guineas.  Accommodation  is 
Of  superior  description  and  unusually  spacious,  including  Reading  and 
Smoking  Rooms.  Experienced  Surgeon  and  Stewardess. 

WM.  COTTS  &  Co.,  Agents, 

Natal  Bank  Buildings,  Durban. 
Or  to  Messrs — . " 

But  he  read  no  more:  the  single  word,  "Durban,"  had 
settled  the  White  Star  Line  for  him:  he  was  going  to  try 
to  forget,  to  live  for  the  present,  and  that  word  of  six 
letters  would  remind  him! 

He  turned  to  the  Rennie  Line,  which  promised, 

"On  or  about 
Jan.  2d.     S.  S.  Inyoni  (Inter  2,000  tons),  Ca.pt.  P.  J.  Jackman." 

But  he  dropped  it,  for  it  concluded: 

"MARCONI  SYSTEM  OF  WIRELESS  TELEGRAPH.  Installed 
on  board  Inanda  and  Inkosi.  Passengers  can  thereby  communicate 
with  friends  on  shore  before  arrival  in  England." 

No,  not  that,  for  it  would  be  only  irresistible  temptation 
which  he  must  not  put  himself  in  the  way  of:  he  would 
not  see  Greg  and  Anne  and  the  Netherbys  if  it  could  be 
avoided,  and  to  be  so  near  to  Her  —  Then,  too,  it  had 
been  the  steamship  Inanda  that  he  and  Greg  had  waited 
by,  the  night  when  Carstairs,  instead  of  coming  to  sail  to 
the  Cape  with  them,  had  gone;  and,  still  more  unescap- 
ably  reminiscent  he  found  the  name  of  her  sister  ship,  for 
Inkosi  was  a  synonym  of  umFundize,  and  that  Fiend  had 
said,  that  night  at  the  Regent: 

"You,  umFundize,  will  be  the  last  to  die  of  those  now 
sitting  within  this  room!" 

So  he  crumpled  the  folders  of  the  White  Star  and  the 
Rennie,  and  sailed  on  the  German  East  African  Line,  tak- 


WITH  THE  CURRENT  269 

ing  the  Eastern  route,  which  should  carry  him  to  Beira, 
Chinde,  Mozambique,  Zanzibar,  Dar-es-Salaam,  Tanga, 
Mombasa  (Kilindini),  Aden,  Suez,  Port  Said,  Naples, 
Marseilles,  Tangiers,  Lisbon,  Southampton,  Flushing,  and 
Hamburg. 

He  read  each  word  of  the  long  list  lingeringly.  Surely, 
he  thought,  the  release  which  now  tarried  so  obstinately, 
must  lurk  there  in  one  of  them ! 

And  yet  Beira  gave  him  only  the  friendship  of  a  stranded 
white  man,  who,  for  the  fortnight  the  American  hung 
there,  watched  the  strong,  sympathetic  face  with  the 
adoration  of  a  dog.  And  Chinde,  though  he  lagged  there 
a  month,  between  boats,  bore  nothing  but  horror  for  those 
who  stayed  there  voluntarily.  Mozambique.  Another 
month  he  sought  to  strike  from  his  memory.  Zanzibar, 
he  could  endure  only  for  a  fortnight.  Dar-es-Salaam 
was  brighter  and  far  more  picturesque,  yet  it,  together 
with  Tanga  and  Mombasa,  revealed  nothing,  and  totalled 
only  six  weeks.  He  idled  twice  that  at  Aden.  Suez  spelled 
a  gainless  fortnight.  Port  Said  for  the  same  period,  and 
void  as  the  rest.  Naples,  Marseilles,  Tangiers,  Lisbon  — 
he  fled  soon,  smiling  and  lovely  as  they  were.  Southamp 
ton  and  Flushing  —  how  he  longed  for  the  weakness  to 
abandon  his  oath  and  unfitness  for  her  love  and  follow 
her!  He  was  grateful  when  the  steamer  resumed  her 
course  and,  at  last,  liberated  him  at  Hamburg. 

Here,  at  his  hotel,  his  mail  caught  up  with  him:  a  long 
letter  from  Tom,  with  Janet's  writing  on  the  envelope. 
But  he  contented  himself  with  a  swift  glance  that  read 
they  were  well,  for  the  other  letters  were  from  Greg.  All, 
too,  in  the  same  tenor:  he  had  had  only  the  Kimberley 


270  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

letters.  Was  he  still  there?  Or  had  he  gone  back  to 
America? 

"By  the  time  you  receive  this,"  ended  the  second  of  the 
four  letters,  "my  turn  will  have  come.  Ormsby,  Ormsby, 
it  will  be  harder  than  ever  for  me  to  go  now,  for,  besides 
leaving  Anne,  there  will  be " 

And  the  big  man  lowered  the  page  reverently.  Greg 
had  written  of  a  child.  The  letter  went  on : 

"Through  every  medium  except  words,  you  urged  me  against  mar 
riage;  and  now,  though  a  long  year's  gone  since  it,  you  say,  as  you  read 
this,  that  you  were  right.  But  you  were  wrong  then,  and  you  are  wrong 
now:  for  once  your  calm  logic  has  gone  awry!  From  the  first,  I  believe 
that  I  have  envied  you,  deliberate,  self-contained  and  strong.  But, 
though  you  are  still  powerless  to  realize  it,  or  to  understand  me,  your 
very  strength  has  misled  you.  Love,  if  you  had  ever  known  it,  would 
have  enlightened  you!" 

"Love,"  said  the  big  man  to  himself,  slowly.  But  he 
smiled,  for  he  knew,  now,  that  his  secret  and  Hers  was 
safe  from  Greg,  who,  though  he  had  heard  Anne's  denun 
ciation  that  day,  at  the  dock-head  in  Durban,  had  not 
believed.  Fears  of  the  contrary  had  assailed  him.  He 
had  known  that  She  and  Anne  must  meet,  that,  long 
before  this,  they  had  revived  the  association  which  they 
too  had  treasured  so.  But  now  there  would  be  conject 
ures  and  questionings  only  on  Anne's  part.  Marian  would 
be  spared  the  anguish  of  Greg's  congratulatory  sympathy. 

And,  by  this  time Not  even  yet  could  he  bring 

himself  to  voice  it;  yet  he  told  himself  that  his  oath  should 
not  falter,  and  that  Youth  was  still  hers  and  that  even  a 
year,  to  Youth,  was  very  long.  And,  even  assuming  — 
and  his  heart  leaped,  though  he  defined  nothing  —  his 


WITH  THE  CURRENT  271 

time  would  come  soon,  heralded  by  a  delayed  and  heart 
broken  letter  from  Anne,  or,  more  probably,  from  Lady 
Netherby,  telling  him  that  Greg  had  died. 

Through  the  seemingly  endless  days  and  nights,  which 
rolled  on  over  him,  in  the  German  city,  he  wondered 
where  that  letter  would  find  him,  from  whence  come  to 
him.  And,  once  that  letter  had  come,  where  should  he 
go  from  it?  Not  that  that  mattered  much!  For  his 
doom  would  detect  him,  here,  there,  or  elsewhere  that  he 
might  crawl  to  on  the  world,  like  a  fly  creeping  on  a 
schoolroom  globe! 

What  was  the  use  of  this  endless  pursuit  of  he  knew  not 
what?  That  was  it :  "  What  was  the  use  of  it?  " 

He  was  essentially  a  solitary,  by  this  time.  Before, 
he  had  been,  in  comparison,  merely  utterly  lonely,  meeting 
no  one  a  second  time,  abandoning  his  lodgings  for  another, 
as  soon  as  sympathy,  or  interest,  or  curiosity  led  others  to 
attempt  to  penetrate  his  solitude. 

And,  though  he  hardly  realized  it,  those  who  came  on 
him  pondered  him:  who  he  was;  what  he  was;  the  big,  fine- 
faced,  sad-eyed,  evanescent  American.  And  they  would 
have  done  what  they  could  for  him,  if  they  had  known 
what  came,  one  day,  without  warning,  and  struck  him 
down:  Greg  had  written  it:  She  had  married.  She  was 
very  happy.  He  and  Anne  and  the  Netherby s  were 
delighted.  Greg  supposed  he  would  write  to  her,  and 
so  gave  the  place  where  they  were  going  to  spend  the  next 
month  or  two.  "One  of  his  places,"  Greg  commented. 
This  Heaven-on-Earth  was  somewhere  in  the  north  of 
Scotland.  Anne  had  seen  it,  and  it  was  very  beautiful. 

"Tell  her  I  wish  her  every  happiness,"  the  big  man 


THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

wrote  Greg.  Then,  he  mailed  the  letter  with  his  own 
hands,  and  awaited  Greg's  answer  with  the  devotion  of 
one  who  could  hope  for  the  denial  of  a  thing  irreparable. 

He  waited.  Until  now  he  had  forgotten  that  Greg  had 
known  no  address  since  Kimberley;  and  that,  since  writ 
ing  this  letter,  which,  like  the  rest,  had  been  so  succes 
sively  forwarded,  Greg,  like  himself,  might  have  altered 
his  address  repeatedly.  And,  though  he  knew,  the  next 
instant,  that  Anne's  health  would  forbid  this  continuous 
voyaging,  he  clung  to  the  illusion  with  increasing  ten 
acity,  as  day  followed  day,  and  no  letter  came. 

Then  his  letter  was  returned  to  him,  a  note  with  it. 
Somehow,  even  before  he  opened  it,  he  divined  its 
message  and  knew  that  it  was  from  Lady  Netherby. 

Very  suddenly,  the  day  before,  Greg  had  died. 

That  night,  from  quiet  Hamburg,  in  which  the  big  man 
had  drifted  and  found  shelter  for  six  months,  he  sailed  for 
America. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 
AMERICA 

IT  HAD  come  very  stealthily,  his  sudden  realization 
that  America  was  the  one  place  left  for  him.  But 
though  a  realization,  he  found  it  most  difficult  to 
define.  He  ascertained  this  only  after  the  steamer  had 
sailed,  and  he  knew  that  he  was  going  to  what  once  had 
been  home  to  him,  across  that  gray  and  soundless  sea. 
For  it  was  soundless:  the  night  was  calm;  only  the  serene 
voices  of  the  soft-breasted  sea-wanderers,  the  tireless 
undulations  of  water,  swinging  in  to  meet  and  lift  smoothly 
the  bulk  of  the  liner,  then  slide  from  under  and  pass  on 
behind  her,  offered  any  sound. 

The  seas  soothed  him  with  a  thousand  promises,  until 
he  felt  the  call  which  had  been  —  and  must  ever  be  —  so 
irresistible  to  many  of  the  troubled  ones  of  the  world. 
What  was  it,  he  asked  himself,  hour  after  hour.  Did 
the  waters  understand  him  and  his  need?  Did  they  pity 
him?  And  were  they  offering  themselves  as  a  means  of 
escape  from  his  suffering? 

He  had  much  time  in  which  to  ponder  this;  but  his 
pondering  won  him  no  solution.  At  best,  only  a  theory, 
which  he  accepted  impersonally:  it  was  not  the  waves, 
which  spoke  to  him,  but  his  own  heart,  telling  him  that 
he  should  soon  leave  the  world,  and  that  this  green,  tran 
quil  ocean  would  afford  a  swift  and  painless  death.  And, 

273 


274  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

though  the  thought  of  suicide  had  been  hateful  to  him 
before,  he  could  consider  the  step,  now,  with  a  mind  fair 
and  free  from  prejudice.  He  knew  that  he  had  gained 
this  viewpoint  only  upon  the  coming  of  those  two  letters, 
which  had  told  of  Her  marriage  and  of  Bradbroke's 
death.  How  little  the  writers  had  dreamed  what  those 
letters  would  mean  to  him,  make  of  him !  Well,  Greg  was 
past  knowing,  and  Lady  Netherby  would  never  know. 

Then,  his  reverie  changed:  not  even  suicide  was  open 
to  him,  for  he  had  written  his  name  clear  and  distinct  on 
the  steamer's  register,  and  She  must  hear  of  it  if  he  gave 
himself  to  the  sea.  And  no  death  was  so  absolute,  and 
no  ocean  so  deep,  but  that  he  should  feel  how  far  he  had 
fallen  in  her  regard. 

So  he  would  not  give  himself  to  this  cool,  piling,  rising, 
receding  water,  which  called  to  him.  She  must  live  on 
untrammelled  by  thoughts  of  him  in  her  safe,  serene, 
English  home.  Already  dead  to  her,  he  must  insure  his 
ceasing  to  be  even  a  memory. 

Obedient  to  the  decree  of  this  strange  loyalty,  he  made 
his  way.  It  was  an  outre,  abnormal  way.  Now  that 
she  was  another's  and  that  Bradbroke  was  dead,  his  brief 
future  stretched  a  colourless  waste  ahead  of  him.  It  had 
been  that  before,  but  Greg's  letter  had  killed  it  all  over 
again.  Somewhere,  invisible,  yet  near,  Fraser,  Chadwell, 
Paxton,  the  singer,  Carstairs,  and  now  Gregory  Bradbroke, 
waited  his  coming,  the  five  who  had  gone  before. 

It  seemed  to  him,  sometimes,  that  he  saw  them,  but  he 
knew  that  these  intimate  visions  were  only  hallucinations, 
the  creatures  of  his  harried  brain.  And  yet  they  were 
startlingly  clear,  as  clear  as  that  room,  at  the  Regent  Club, 


AMERICA  275 

as  clear,  almost,  as  the  face  and  the  words  of  the  Fiend 
who  had  ruined  him,  converted  him,  distorted,  and  dis 
organized  him,  whose  lips  seemed  speaking,  unceasingly, 
in  his  very  ear.  Hammerstone,  too,  as  he  came  back,  after 
caring  for  Frazer.  Hammerstone  bothered  the  big  man: 
he  was  so  eternally  coming  back  to  say  they  must  realize 
that  it  was  only  a  coincidence,  and  that  the  interment 
would  be  at  three  o'clock.  At  other  times,  Hammerstone, 
without  becoming  less  clear  in  his  eternal  entry  into  the 
room  at  the  Regent,  was  trying  to  hide  himself  in  the 
crowd  in  the  club  at  Kimberley.  Clavering,  too,  brown- 
faced  and  eager,  was  telling  the  crowd  of  the  frank,  free, 
open  life  on  the  high  veldt: 

"Nothing  like  it  in  the  world!  No,  nothing  like  it  in 
the  world!"  Then,  Clavering  was  always  going  out  into 
the  storm,  and  being  killed  by  lightning.  It  was  too 
bad.  Clavering  had  had  a  good,  straight  pair  of  eyes, 
and  a  brown  face,  and  had  seemed  in  the  very  top  of 
condition.  Young,  too.  Yes,  it  was  too  bad.  Yet 
Clavering's  going  off  that  way  had  showed  how  uncertain 
life  was  even  when  spared  any  irremediable  curse.  It 
had  served  in  that  way!  And  through  all  and  in  all,  and 
closer  immeasurably  than  all  to  the  big  man,  Her  words, 
and  the  touch  of  her,  that  moment  at  the  bungalow,  when 
they  had  spoken  the  truth  to  each  other,  there  and  on  the 
steamer,  her  love,  her  face,  her  tears,  her  longing  to  stay 
and  meet  with  him  whatever  his  unspoken  fate  might  be! 

That  was  what  he  lived  on,  as  the  steamer  told  off  the 
miles,  piling  them  up  between  him  and  the  land  which  he 
had  left.  He  should  never  go  back,  never  again  see  Eng 
land.  The  end  should  find  him  somewhere  in  America! 


276  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

But  he  knew,  for  all  that,  that  to  the  end  he  should  see 
only  Her  and  South  Africa. 

And,  while  Durban  stared,  closer  ever  and  closer,  his 
steamer  climbed  the  harbour  and  made  her  dock  at  New 
York! 

Yes,  it  was  New  York.  For  past  streamed  the  crowds 
on  both  sidewalks,  every  now  and  then  overflowing  into 
the  gutters  to  meet  in  the  middle  of  the  street.  A  nervous 
clang  cleared  the  way  temporarily  for  an  ambulance,  in 
whose  back  lazed  an  impassive  attendant,  incongruously 
immaculate  in  his  white  duck;  then,  the  crowd  closed  in 
again,  the  morbid  trying  to  see  what  lay  crumpled  on  the 
stretcher  at  the  attendant's  farther  side.  Men,  women, 
children  with  Sphinx-like,  far-peering  faces  which,  not 
even  on  the  day  of  their  birth,  could  have  suggested  joy  or 
youth!  Cars  slued  in,  solid  with  the  same  parodies  on 
humanity,  native-born  it  might  be,  yet  with  the  features 
of  their  parent  immigrants.  By  Heaven,  he  seemed  look 
ing  into  the  steerage  of  a  ship!  A  Jew,  an  auctioneer's 
"puller-in,"  barked  from  a  doorway:  the  watches  being 
offered  for  sale  were  stock  unredeemed  from  pawnbrokers, 
he  lied.  Two  Italian  pigmies  kicked  a  box  to  pieces,  to  tie 
and  drag  the  fragments  with  their  shrewd,  small  hands, 
while  their  mother  waited,  a  stolid  statue,  an  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds  of  stolen  timber  on  her  head!  Newsboys 
screamed  like  gulls  over  refuse!  Every  manner  of  vehicle, 
electric,  horse,  and  human,  filed  by  with  every  manner  of 
prey  for  the  maw  of  the  multitude!  The  city  roared! 
Yes,  it  was  his  world,  so  plain  and  palpable  that  his  Fate 
seemed  only  a  mirage,  imaginary  and  non-existent,  con 
jured  up  by  himself.  His  predicament?  His  bondage? 


AMERICA  277 

His  inevitable  end?  Had  he  not,  after  all,  dreamed 
them?  And  should  he  not  find,  in  a  moment,  that  only 
their  Unreality  was  Real?  Then,  he  felt  again  the  Jap 
anese  Netsuki  —  the  one  thing  he  had  bought  at  Dar-es- 
Salaam  —  wrought  by  patient,  brown  fingers  with  a  skill 
as  old  as  Time;  and  he  knew  that,  though  he  was  walking 
a  familiar  street,  in  the  dear,  old  city,  he  was  held  by  his 
Doom  and  held  hopelessly,  for  the  evidence  of  it  was 
stamped  on  his  very  heart. 


It  was  so :  first  in  New  York,  and  then  in  Boston,  which 
he  soon  fled  to,  the  men  who  welcomed  him,  importuning 
him  back  to  his  old  life,  were  not  so  tangible  to  him  as 
Fraser  and  Chadwell  and  the  singer  and  Carstairs  and 
Bradbroke!  These  old  friends,  this  world  he  had  con 
fidently  thought  should  be  his  his  life  through,  were  no 
longer  his.  Or,  rather,  he  saw  them  all  over  an  impassible 
barrier.  Each  day,  he  knew  this  more  indubitably,  and 
soon  began  to  withdraw  from  them,  for  they  sought  to 
come  between  him  and  his  dreams.  Then,  because  they 
became  insistent,  he  left  them.  He  was  going  away. 
For  how  long?  He  made  the  best  he  could  with  that,  for 
how  could  he  tell  them  that  he  should  never  meet  any 
one  of  them  again! 

"Across  to  that  other  ocean,  to  tne  Pacific,"  he  said  to 
himself,  its  sole  recommendation  its  distance  and  the  fact 
that,  beside  it,  he  should  know  no  one  who  might  infringe 
his  solitude. 

But  he  ran  into  the  Boydens'  before  he  had  been  in 


278  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

Pasadena  an  hour.  And  Tom  Kennerley  and  his  wife 
pinned  him  down  to  a  dinner,  a  week  after  he  had  settled 
himself  in  San  Francisco.  Portland  for  a  month  seemed 
a  safe  haven,  but  then  Greymouth  Crew,  hungry  for  news 
of  the  East,  seized  on  him  gratefully. 

It  was  enough:  he  would  try  the  wilderness;  and,  heed 
less  of  those  who  warned  him  that  it  was  the -wrong  season, 
he  went  hopefully  into  the  far  distant  North,  where  he 
revelled,  half-heartedly  in  the  hunting,  until  Crandall, 
1901,  staggered,  half-frozen,  into  his  shack.  Nome  had 
been  no  better  than  the  others !  Even  the  wilderness  had 
failed! 

"Still  another  country,  then,"  he  told  himself  list 
lessly.  And,  with  the  red-brown  of  his  three  months  of 
Alaskan  winter  on  his  firm  cheeks,  he  dropped  down  to 
Victoria. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 
VICTORIA 

VERY  neat,  very  quaint,  very  quiet,  very  English, 
the    little    city  appealed  to    him.      Feeling    its 
peace,  and  noting  its  modest  pretensions,  he  won 
dered  how  he  could  have  hesitated  even  as  long  as  he 
had  between  it  and  Seattle.    Here,  he  could  suffer  no 
interruption.     He  settled  himself  in  easily  gained  lodgings, 
and  told  himself  that  he  had  found  the  right  place  at 
last: 

"I'll  stand  it  out  here.  Now  that  Greg's  gone,  it 
can't  be  long."  He  said  it  confidently.  And,  accepting 
Its  imminence,  he  made  the  necessary  preparations,  with 
his  characteristic  quietude  and  thoroughness.  He  had 
given  his  New  York  and  Boston  addresses  to  the  clerk  of 
the  little,  private  hotel;  and  he  now  amplified  these  by 
appending  the  names  of  his  three  living  relatives,  together 
with  indication  where  they  might  most  readily  be  found. 
He  wrote  such  letters  as  he  wished,  each  a  farewell,  and 
each  undated,  "to  be  delivered  in  case  of  accident  to 
myself."  Next,  he  wrote  and  mailed  at  once,  letters  of 
more  detail  — •  though  in  no  way  suggesting  his  approach 
ing  annihilation.  These  were  to  Tom  and  Janet;  and  even 
to  the  little  baby,  he  wrote  with  eyes  gone  wet.  And,  last 
of  all,  he  burned  the  letters  which,  at  Durban,  at  Kim- 
berley,  and  at  every  stop  since,  he  had  written  to  the  Eng« 

279 


280  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

lish  violet  —  completing  his  task  gray -faced.  In  effect 
and  sensation,  he  had  now  all  but  parted  from  the  world 
of  those  who  lived. 

His  secret  thus  buried  for  all  time,  and  all  preparations 
made  for  the  care  of  his  body,  he  looked  on  those  about 
him  with  an  easy  tolerance.  By  day,  he  kept  his  rooms 
with  almost  stuporic  lethargy.  By  night,  he  went  out  and 
walked  for  great  periods,  in  the  darkness,  or,  as  he  soon 
came  to  do,  rode  one  of  the  horses  which  an  adjacent  hostler 
kept  in  readiness  for  him.  Great  strength  and  rugged 
health  had  been  his,  and  should  be  kept  his  up  to  the  very 
end.  Always,  he  had  despised  men  who  let  themselves 
get  out  of  condition,  just  as  he  had  pitied  men,  who, 
through  lack  of  ruggedness,  had  never  known  what  con 
dition  was  —  and,  by  "condition,"  the  big  man  meant  the 
glorious  vigour  of  the  men  on  the  crew  squad  —  his 
Harvard  days. 

He  met  no  one  in  anything  approaching  intimacy. 
From  time  to  time,  he  came  on  a  face  he  had  seen  once  or 
twice  before,  but  that  was  his  nearest  step  toward  acquaint 
ance,  to  say  nothing  of  anything  affording  companion 
ship.  If  he  excited  interest,  it  was  not  gratified.  If  he 
roused  curiosity,  it  did  not  reach  his  ears.  He  had  been 
right  in  estimating  that  an  American  in  Victoria  could  pre 
serve  his  solitude  if  he  would. 

And  he  was  accepting  this  as  an  unequivocal  fact, 
when,  without  prelude,  it  was  disproven:  far  out  of  the 
city,  one  evening,  himself  riding,  he  came  on  a  rider 
fighting  for  control  of  an  ill-broken  horse.  One  glance 
showed  the  horse  was  winning;  the  second  saw  the  horse 
rear  and  fall  backward,  pinning  the  rider  under  him. 


VICTORIA  281 

Instantly,  the  American  had  reached  them,  and  was  off  his 
own  mount. 

"Not  much  hurt,  I  hope,"  he  asked,  as  he  lifted  the 
other  in  his  arms. 

"No,  just  my  leg,  thanks.  All  right."  The  man 

tested  the  leg  as  he  spoke.  "Jove,  makes  me  feel " 

By  way  of  defining,  he  steadied  himself  still  more  against 
the  big  shoulder  which  was  little  higher  than  his  own. 
"Just  a  moment,  then  I'll  be  fit!  It's  not  that  I'm  done, 
or  anything.  The  deuce  of  it  is  I'm  just  quit  of  the 
hospital.  Got  a  bullet  somewhere  in  this  queer  leg  of 
mine,  and  the  surgeons  have  been  trying  for  it  again. 
Ought  not  to  have  ridden  this  devil  the  first  night!" 
He  forced  a  smile,  but  his  lips  were  white  and  he  breathed 
irregularly. 

The  big  man  swung  his  horse  around.  "I'll  put  you 
up,  and  take  you  wherever  you  say  to,"  he  said  quickly. 
"Yes,"  as  the  other  formed  a  denial:  "your  beast's 
bolted,  and  it's  close  on  midnight.  Ten  to  one  no  one 
will  be  along!" 

"But,  I  can't  let  you " 

For  answer,  the  American  swung  him  from  the  ground 
to  the  saddle.  "Where?"  he  asked,  beginning  to  walk 
by  the  horse,  which  he  had  already  turned  in  the  direction 
of  the  town. 

The  other  made  no  answer  at  first.  Clearly,  he  was 
shaken  more  than  he  realized.  But  he  was  not  thinking 
of  himself:  "I  say,  this  is  no  end  fine  of  you,  old  man,*' 
he  cried  frankly,  his  accent  neither  wholly  English  nor  en 
tirely  American.  "And  you're  right:  the  leg's  no  possible 
good  now.  Don't  know  what  I'd  have  done!  Staying 


THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

on  here?    Odd  I  haven't  seen  you.     I'd  have  remem 
bered,  for,"  with  a  quick,  downward  glance  of  candid 

admiration,   "you're  big  enough  and "     He  broke 

off,  ending,  "So,  I'd  have  remembered  you." 

"Yes,  I'm  staying  on  here,  as  you  say,"  the  big  man 
admitted;  "but  about  yourself:  Where  do  you  want  me 
to  take  you  to?" 

"All  right,"  said  the  mounted  man,  with  a  frank  laugh. 
"And  I  beg  your  pardon.  If  you'll  deliver  me  at  the 
Victoria  Club.  ..." 

"Where  is  it?" 

"Straight  ahead  a  bit.  Hardly  a  mile,  I  think.  I'll 
say  *when,'  when  we  come  to  it.  Here,"  he  said,  after  a 
period,  "this  is  it,  and  I  guess  my  leg " 

But  he  groaned  as  he  tested  it.  "You  know,"  as  he 
thrust  out  his  hand  for  the  big  man's,  "I'm  any  amount 
sorry;  but " 

"Better  let  me  take  you  right  in,  if  you  don't  mind  being 
thought  crippled."  And  the  American  carried  him  up 
the  broad  steps  and  through  the  door  which  an  attendant 
held  back  for  them. 

"Fine,"  commended  the  other  gratefully.  "Here," 
to  a  waiter.  "You'll  have  something?  I've  got  to! 
This  pain's  the  devil!  Two  club  cocktails!"  The  waiter 
dashed  away. 

The  big  man  looked  down.  After  all,  it  would  be 
only  a  moment.  And  he  took  the  chair  placed  for  him. 

His  host  smiled  across,  nodding.  "Didn't  want  to,  but 
was  persuaded.  Don't  worry :  I'm  not  full  of  questions." 
To  prove  it,  he  turned  toward  where  the  waiter  had  raced 
to.  "Can't  imagine  what's  keeping  the  fellow:  club 


lO 

«i} 

r«£^ 

EN 


VICTORIA  283 

cocktails  ought  not  to  take  half  a Here  they  are!" 

He  pushed  one  across  to  the  big  man,  and  raised  his  own. 

"To  you,  and "  Then,  he  stopped,  his  untasted 

glass  halfway  to  his  friendly,  smiling  lips.  The  smile 

faded.  "I  say "  Then  his  hand  slowly  went  down 

until  the  glass  clicked  on  the  smooth  table's  heavy  wood. 

But  neither  click  nor  exclamation  moved  the  man  who 
had  forgotten  him:  fixed  as  a  statue,  the  American  was 
staring  away  from  him  at  a  man  who  sat  alone  at  a  table 
on  the  other  side  of  the  wide  room.  The  man  was  half- 
turned  away.  Only  his  profile  was  visible.  Apparently, 
he  was  finishing  an  elaborate  dinner.  He  seemed  of  an 
easy,  reflective  turn  of  mind,  too,  for,  though  alone,  his 
lips  moved,  and,  from  time  to  time,  he  smiled.  But  not 
once  did  he  turn  his  head. 

And  the  big  man  stared  on  at  him,  as  rigid  as  the  table 
against  which  he  pressed. 

"Drink,  for  God's  sake!"  at  last  breathed  his  host. 
"I  thought  7  needed  it,  but  you " 

He  was  granted  strange  obedience:  the  big  man,  with 
out  lifting  his  eyes  once  from  their  anchorage,  felt  for  the 
glass  he  had  set  down,  and,  raising  it,  drank  the  strong 
liquor  in  panting  gulps.  Then,  his  big  hand  closed  on  his 
host's  with  a  grip  which  bent  the  bones. 

"One  day,"  he  said,  with  an  effort,  "I'll  find  you  and 
tell  you  what  you've  done  for  me." 

Then,  he  went  across  to  the  man,  who  still  sat,  alone 
and  unobservant,  at  the  table  on  the  other  side  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 
THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

THE  chalk  cliffs!    But  was  it  really  England,  he 
asked  himself,   as  he  watched  them,  from  the 
steamer's  bow?    For,  though  he  knew  now,  it 
still  seemed  a  mirage.     The  transition  had  been  too  sud 
den,  too  utterly  unhoped  for,  so  soon  to  become  credible. 
He  had  been  at  Victoria,  in  British  Columbia,  and  had 
met  a  man  in  the  night  there.     He  had  helped  the  man, 
and  had   been  at  the  Victoria  Club  with  him,  gone  in, 
and  there    .     .     . 

An  hour  after  the  landing  was  made,  he  was  saying  to 
Catherine  Hetheridge,  "I  have  broken  my  promise,  but 
forgive  me.  You  will  understand " 

She  looked  up  at  him :  memorable  as  he  had  been  always 
to  her,  she  had  not  imagined  that  even  he  could  be  like 
this.  "You?"  The  marvel  held  her  still. 

"I  must  be  received  by  the  Earl  of  Leighton,  as  his 
guest,  unannounced,  at  once." 

She  said,  simply,  "Yes."  Then  the  eyes,  of  the  strange 
blue  of  the  soil  about  Kimberley,  swept  over  him,  en 
folded  him :  for  one  daring  moment,  she  had  been  able  to 
forget.  But  for  only  a  moment.  She  turned  from  him, 
thinking  only  of  him.  "Have  you  *  alized  what  it  will 
mean?  Yes,"  in  the  same  breath,  "I  know  that  you 
believe  that  your  course  is  right." 

284 


THE  MAN  BETWEEN  285 

"Right,"  he  cried.  "It  is  as  right  as  that  you  are 
here,  as  you  are,  instead  of  obeying  the  beck  and  call  of  an 
inferior;  it  is  as  right  as  that,  after  a  time,  you  will  have 
forgotten  that  any  ever  bore  the  name  Zelig!  Don't," 
he  said,  with  infinite  gentleness  touching  the  hands  which 
her  face  had  gone  trembling  down  to,  "it's  just  that  I 
wanted  you  to  know  how  glad  I  am!  And  now  take  me 
to  the  Earl  of  Leighton!" 

She  checked  him,  her  hands  at  her  throat?  "Is  it  a 
coincidence  which  has  led  the  Earl  and  the  Countess  to 
entertain  whom  they  do,  to-night?  " 

"It  is  Fate,"  he  said.  "She  could  be  nowhere  else  in 
the  world,  to-night." 

"Shall  I  ever  see  you  again?"  she  asked  while  they 
waited,  one  instant,  before  the  Earl  of  Leighton's  door. 

"Yes,"  he  told  her. 

Then  they  entered,  she  to  go  to  the  drawing-room  and 
the  Countess,  he  to  go  where  he  knew,  from  the  hour  it 
was,  that  he  should  find  the  Earl. 

There  were  in  that  room,  the  Earl  of  Leighton,  and 
three  other  men,  older,  gray-haired,  grave  men  with  nobly 
won  orders  on  their  breasts.  And  one  was  leaning  slightly 
toward  his  host  and  the  two  other  guests,  saying: 

"And  it  does  exist  there.  I  have  been  there,  and  seen 
it  for  myself.  And,  I  tell  you,"  his  fine  old  eyes  sweeping 
the  half  circle,  "in  America,  I  have  seen  what,  since  it  is 
allowed  by  the  authorities,  we  cannot  blame  the  perpe 
trators  for;  but  it  was  a  revelation  to  me.  I ' 

"That  is  it,"  the  smaller,  more  nervous  man  next  him 
interrupted.  "You  define  the  explanation,  Sir  Harry: 
it  is  yourself.  Yes,  pardon  me,  I  mean  exactly  that:  you 


286  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

have  never  known  politics  or  anything  whatever  touching 
the  commercial.  Since  leaving  the  sea,  you  have  known 
only  the  quiet  of  one  of  the  most  beautiful  spots  in  Eng 
land;  and,  as  a  result,  any  shrewd  and  unprincipled  out- 
reaching  for  money  is  a  revelation,  as  you  just  said.  Now, 
in  spite  of  all  you  have  told  of  America,  I  venture  to  say 

that,  right  here,  in  Britain 

But  the  old  sailor  was  not  to  be  put  down.  "You  mis 
take  me,"  he  corrected:  "I  am  not  speaking  of  ordinary 
sharpness.  In  the  one  week  I  spent  in  America,  I  saw 
what  amounted  to  deliberate  extortion.  Under  the  British 

flag,  it  would  have  been  called " 

"Crude"  said  a  voice  from  the  doorway. 
At  the  words,  the  Earl,  the  old  sailor,  and  the  two  other 
men  turned,  so  that,  at  the  same  instant,  they  saw  him 
standing  straight  and  tall  between  the  heavy  portieres. 

"Mr.  Ormsby,"  tardily  announced  the  butler,  "of 
America." 

He  stood  very  still  and  silent.  At  each  side  were 
armoured  figures,  mailed  ghosts  of  the  past;  but  wide  and 
tall  as  they  were,  they  were  dwarfed  by  the  reach  and  bulk 
of  the  American.  So  that  he  might  well  have  seemed,  to 
those  who  beheld  him,  as  silent  as  he,  a  reincarnated 
champion,  come  to  confront  them  from  a  bygone  world  — 
the  illusion  so  obstinate  as  to  hold  them  even  while  he 
came  deliberately  toward  them,  his  big-boned  face  stand 
ing  out  brown  against  the  white  front  of  his  evening 
clothes. 
The  Duke  of  Radford  turned  to  the  statesman  who  sat 

at  his  right.     "I  say,  Kayting,  did  you ?"     Then 

he  stopped,  for  the  intruder  was  now  close,  saying,  as  he 


THE  MAN  BETWEEN  287 

seated  himself  opposite  them,  "It  is  my  right  to  tell  you 
why  I  have  come." 

Sir  Harry  Marlton  looked  from  the  Earl,  who  had  gone 
rigid,  to  the  man  who  ignored  the  peer  so  grimly : 

"I  say,  you  can  explain  this,  of  course?"  he  asked  the 
man  from  America. 

There  was  nothing  hostile  in  the  frank  question.  They 
might  have  been  sitting  in  a  club,  two  big  men  by  them 
selves,  two  fighters,  one  old  and  the  other  young,  one  a 
sailor  and  the  other  a  landsman,  yet  tacitly  admitting 
their  congeniality.  And  the  old  sailor  smiled  across  to 
the  brown,  big-boned  face.  His  own  was  brown.  "I 
say,  Radford,"  he  nodded,  "we'd  be  glad  if  he'd  ex 
plain?" 

"If  you  will,"  said  the  Duke.  "But,  first,  Leighton, 
don't  you I  fancy  he'd  best  be  offered  us." 

The  Earl's  lips  moved.  But  the  man  from  America 
leaned  forward.  "Hear  me  through  first,"  he  said,  "and 
let  what  introductions  are  needed  come  afterward.  Be 
patient:  every  detail  shall  be  cleared  up.  I  am  John 
Ormsby,  an  American.  Ten  years  ago  I  completed  the 
academic  course  at  Harvard,  my  father's  college  and  my 
grandfather's.  By  residence,  I  am  most  familiar  with  Bos 
ton  and  New  York.  I  have  crossed  a  continent  and  an 
ocean  to  see  the  man  whose  guests  you  are." 

"Very  good,"  interrupted  the  sailor.  "But  you  said 
'crude,'  a  moment  ago.  What  did  you  mean  by  that?' ' 

The  American  bowed.  "I  shall  tell  you."  He  waited 
a  moment,  then  began: 

"I  will  take  you  back  a  little  behind  two  years.  I  used 
to  speculate." 


288  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

The  Duke  suddenly   nodded.      "You  are  that  John 
Ormsby?" 

"Yes.  Wanting  a  change,  a  little  more  than  two  years 
back,  I  went  to  South  Africa  —  that  is  to  say,  to  Kim- 
berley.  I  speculated  there,"  he  went  on,  with  the  same 
strong,  almost  ominous  calm,  "and  won  heavily  and 
repeatedly.  I  had  what,  even  to  me,  was  amazing  for 
tune:  I  won  continuously,  never  losing,  though  the  prob 
ability  of  loss  was  about  ninety-nine  to  one.  Then  a 
young  Englishman,  who  had  wandered  into  my  shack 
there,  asked  me  to  be  his  guest  at  Durban  for  race-week. 
I  had  no  desire  to  go,  no  curiosity  about  Durban,  and  I 
hadn't  yet  had  my  fill  of  Kimberley.  But  Bradbroke  — 
I  believe  that  I  liked  him  better  than  I  had  liked  any  man 
whom  I  had  known  for  so  short  a  time:  he  was  brilliant, 
though  I  had  not  then  even  begun  to  suspect  him  of  his 
one  certain  attainment;  moreover,  he  was  younger  than  I, 
by  a  year  or  two,  and  physically  far  weaker;  add  to  that 
appeal  the  glamour  I  felt  in  his  incongruous  poverty.  I 
say  incongruous.  In  him,  poverty  was  that;  he  would 
have  become  wealth,  I  saw  at  the  very  first  of  our  acquaint 
ance,  and  he  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  poverty! 
There  to  me  lay  the  glamour  of  his  position.  He'd  prac 
tically  camped  with  me  in  my  Kimberley  shack  for  a 
fortnight.  I'd  come  to  feel  almost  an  older  brother  to 
him.  And  I  became  his  guest  at  Durban. 

"And  there,  his  charm  —  in  those  days  he  had  that 
beyond  question  —  matured  quickly.  I  met  those  near 
est  him,  and  realized  that  he'd  marry,  the  instant  he'd  the 
money  to  do  it,  and  go  home.  And  I  decided  I'd  help 
hun  to.  I  meant  to  get  him  interested  in  speculating.  I 


THE  MAN  BETWEEN  289 

was  going  to  control  his  investments,  and  make  him  win 
heavily.  And  I  could  have  done  it!  Remember,  I  had 
a  tremendous  fortune  and  Kimberley  was  swelling  it. 
Personally,  I  considered  the  thing  as  good  as  done. 

"Then,  one  night,  Bradbroke  took  me  to  the  Regent 
Club.  I'd  been  there  repeatedly  with  him,  and  liked  the 
place.  I  had  heard  an  old  soldier  tell  a  story  there  once. 
He  had  told  it  to  a  crowd  of  us.  The  old  chap  had  been 
warning  us  not  to  run  the  risk  of  angering  any  of  the  local 
witch-doctors,  and  his  story  had  been  of  the  punishment 
measured  out,  by  one  of  these  nGaka,  to  a  white  man  who 
had  defied  him.  The  narrative  had  been  truly  horrible; 
but  I  had  forgiven  the  old  man  the  horror,  and  forgotten 
it.  He  wasn't  there  on  this  evening  I'm  talking  about. 
But  Carstairs  and  Chadwell  and  Fraser  and  Paxton  were, 
men  I'd  come  to  know  well  as  friends  of  Bradbroke.  And 
the  place  was  as  comfortable  as  ever  (though  it  was  a  broil 
ing  night  in  February),  for  there  was  just  our  own  little 
crowd  there,  lots  of  champagne  and  ice,  pipes,  cigarettes, 
black  cigars  and  Irresponsibility.  .  .  . 

"Midnight,  next.  Only  the  six  of  us,  still,  in  the  low, 
wide-walled  room,  when,  without  announcement,  there 
entered  the  wildest  figure  in  the  world,  one  of  these  witch 
doctors  of  the  Zulus.  By  heaven!  I  can  see  him  now 
as  clearly  as  I  see  you!  He  broke  in  on  us  like  a  Death's 
Head;  and  the  obstinate  brute  began  his  tricks,  ignoring 
the  fact  we  hardly  paid  any  attention  to  what  he  did. 
But,  little  by  little,  he  made  us  watch  him,  for  his  work 
was  his  own,  and  far  from  the  usual.  Some  of  his  perform 
ance  was  new  to  me;  and,  as  he  went  on,  he  improved  in 
novelty  until  we'd  forgotten  our  impatience  and  watched 


290  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

him  with  all  our  eyes.  If  you've  seen  any  of  his  order, 
there's  no  need  of  my  describing;  but,  if  you've  not,  take 
my  word  his  powers  were  unimaginable.  Then,  the  very 
wonder  of  it  began  to  pall  on  us.  I'd  had  enough.  And 
so  it  seemed  with  the  others,  for  pretty  soon  they  told 
him  to  clear  out.  You  should  have  seen  him  then !  Pride 
of  craft,  contempt  of  our  understanding  —  call  it  what 
you  will  —  he  glared  down  at  us,  from  his  tremendous 
height,  like  an  outraged  king. 

"And  it  was  probably  that  manner  of  his,  and  his  egotism 
that  started  the  men  off:  Bradbroke  laughed  at  him,  and 
told  me  the  man  was  a  fake.  Then,  some  of  the  other 
fellows,  in  particular  Fraser,  ridiculed  the  witch-doctor 
and  explained  every  trick  he'd  worked.  How  he  leaped 
then!  He  threatened,  and  we  laughed  at  him.  We  for 
got  what  the  old  soldier  had  said  to  us.  And  Fraser  al 
most  literally  kicked  the  nGaka  from  the  room.  Then, 
he  sent  his  curse  on  us.  It  was  to  be  death  soon  for  us. 
He  said  that  I,  because  I  had  derided  him  the  least,  should 
be  the  last  man  in  the  room  to  die.  Then,  his  curse 
launched,  he  went  from  us.  Have  you  seen  mist  sift 
through  a  hedge  or  a  forest?  That,  and  only  that,  can 
describe  his  passage  from  the  room. 

"That's  a  new  one  to  me,'  one  of  my  hosts  said,  with  a 
laugh. 

"It's  a  new  one  to  me,  too,'  said  another,  an  older 
man.  But  he  did  not  laugh. 

"I  imagine  they  have  to  vary  their  programme,  like 
other  artists,'  I  said  carelessly.  And  yet,  the  nGaka's 
words  had  obtruded  themselves  on  me  to  such  an  extent 
that  it  was  only  from  an  odd  nervousness,  tha.t  I  had 


THE  MAN  BETWEEN  291 

taken  refuge  in  artificiality.  I  am  not  a  nervous  man, 
but  I  identified  my  sensations  as  at  least  nervousness,  and, 
angry  at  myself  for  so  failing  what  my  self-pride  had  said 
I  was,  I  employed  another  subterfuge :  I  went  to  the  piano 
and  knocked  out  a  song  we'd  all  sung  earlier  in  the  even 
ing.  I  sang  it  through  as  a  solo;  then  swung  'round  on 
the  stool,  little  assisted  by  the  fact  that  the  rest  had  not 
joined  in.  They  were  sitting  exactly  as  when  I  had 
turned  my  back  on  them.  They  had  not  spoken.  And 
they  said  nothing  now.  It  was  too  much:  I  got  to  my 
feet,  thanked  them  none  too  warmly  for  the  pleasure  of 
the  evening,  ignored  the  latest  incident,  as  far  as  the 
prophecy  went,  and  said  good-night  to  my  hosts. 

"At  that,  four  of  them  sprang  up,  attempting  some 
explanation.  The  fifth  man,  Eraser,  did  not  rise.  When 
we  spoke  to  him,  he  did  not  answer.  I  believe  we  were 
only  surprised,  at  first;  but  it  was  not  surprise  after  we 
had  looked  more  closely  at  him,  and  found  that  he  was 
inert  as  a  bag.  We  called  in  a  doctor,  a  man  named 
Hammerstone,  Chadwell  had  remembered  seeing,  a  couple 
of  hours  back,  in  the  main  living-room;  and  he  took 
Eraser  out.  Ten  minutes  later,  Paxton  —  the  man  with 
the  voice  —  came  back  from  where  he'd  gone  with  the 
doctor;  and  I  can  see,  now,  the  look  in  his  eyes,  when  he 
told  us  that  Fraser  had  not  regained  consciousness  — 
that  he  was  dead.  After  what  seemed  an  interminable 
interval,  Doctor  Hammerstone  came  back  to  us;  and  we 
told  him  of  the  witch-' doctor,'  though  agreeing  that  he 
hadn't  been  closer  than  ten  feet  to  Fraser,  so  couldn't 
possibly  have  touched  him  or  given  him  anything. 

"  Hammerstone  heard  us  out,  then  said  he  didn't  see 


292  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

any  novelty  in  any  part  of  it;  told  us  not  to  let  it  get  on 
our  nerves,  and  reminded  us  that  we  were  in  South  Africa. 
Told,  in  his  turn,  of  the  nGaka's  prophecy,  Hammerstone 
called  it  a  coincidence.  A  coincidence?  We  tried  to 
call  it  that.  But  the  man  was  dead!  Still,  we  left  the 
thing  with  the  doctor,  and  agreed  not  to  talk  about  it. 
Chadwell,  I  mean  Bradbroke,  said  he'd  come  in  and  see 
me,  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  and  we  separated.  I 
went  back  to  my  rooms,  to  sleep  brokenly,  when,  at  last, 
I  got  to  sleep. 

"I  waited  as  long  as  I  could  the  next  day  for  Brad- 
broke;  then,  unable  to  keep  in  my  rooms  any  longer,  went 
out  and  walked  about  the  city,  just  using  up  the  time. 
When,  I  got  back  to  the  rooms,  Bradbroke  was  waiting, 
and  his  eyes  and  in  fact  every  detail  of  his  appearance 
made  me  wonder  how  so  tragic  caricature  of  his  former 
self  had  managed  to  find  his  way  about.  No  matter! 
I  did  what  I  could  for  him,  and  finally  got  him  soothed: 
I  reiterated  that  the  thing  of  the  night  before  was  what 
Hammerstone  had  called  it  —  a  coincidence,  and  that 
we'd  forget  it  in  a  week,  or  else  believe,  by  then,  the  report 
we  had  not  contradicted  —  that  Fraser  had  skipped  the 
country,  dodged  his  debts,  a  way-out  conceived  by  the 
doctor,  who  had  promised  to  bury  the  body  secretly. 

"  My  first  thought  had  been  to  leave  South  Africa  and 
the  beginning  tragedy.  But  I  considered  the  idea  only  to 
abandon  it,  for,  if  danger  did  threaten  me,  it  was  invisible 
and  inevitable,  and  flight  would  not  mean  escape  from 
it.  Moreover  —  but  there's  no  need  of  going  into  that. 
I  wrote  home  I  should  remain  where  I  was  indefinitely  — 
and  I  meant  just  that  —  and  settled  myself  in  Durban. 


THE  MAN  BETWEEN  293 

"  Little  by  little,  we  five  who  remained  —  that  is, 
Carstairs,  Paxton,  Chad  well,  Bradbroke,  and  I  —  fell  into 
the  habit  of  doing  things  together.  And  this  pretty  soon 
whittled  down  to  our  meeting,  night  after  night,  in  one  of 
the  less  frequented  rooms  at  the  Regent  Club.  We  spoke 
irregularly;  and  yet  there  was  little  that  we  kept  back. 
We  had  been  cast  apart  a  bit  —  I  mean  them  from  me,  on 
the  first  evening  after  my  arrival  in  Durban,  but  had 
caught  up  our  association  readily;  and  this,  which  we  five 
had  now  met  with,  made  that  association  a  veritable 
brotherhood.  Did  I,  for  my  own  part,  believe  the  witch 
doctor's  prophecy?  I  hardly  know.  We  didn't  compare 
notes  much.  We  were  trying  to  go  on  as  if  nothing  had 
happened  —  as  if  Fraser  had  not  gone.  Unquestionably, 
our  role  was  an  effort.  Our  relationship  was  the  strangest 
that  men  have  ever  known! 

"  Then,  Hugh  Chadwell  went  from  us.  I  put  it  that  way. 
There  had  come  a  flood  in  a  mine  his  company  worked 
in  the  Transvaal.  The  superintendent  up  there  described 
Chadwell's  death  as  heroic.  But  what  those  of  us  left 
thought  of  it  was  that  we'd  been  mad  to  hope  that 
even  Eraser's  death  had  been  'a  coincidence.'  I  remem 
ber  saying  I  hadn't  been  able  to  follow  the  doctor  at  any 
time,  and  they  owned  up  to  the  same  thing.  But,  even  so, 
Chadwell's  exit  struck  us  like  an  avalanche:  we'd  gotten 
pretty  well  back  into  our  old  way  of  looking  at  things, 
taken  up  the  old  life  —  you  know  what  I  mean:  hunting, 
tennis,  and  cricket;  we'd  even  begun,  under  Bradbroke's 
coaching,  rehearsing  a  play,  the  club  theatricals.  But 
now ! 

"If  Paxton  and  Chadwell    and    Bradbroke  and  Car- 


294  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

stairs  and  I  had  been  intimate,  Paxton  and  Carstairs  and 
Bradbroke  and  I  were  inseparable:  we  dined  together  that 
night,  I  mean  locked  ourselves  in  my  rooms  and  agreed 
never  to  get  apart :  we  were  going  to  keep  right  on  through 
It  together.  I  urged  this,  and  the  other  three  agreed  with 
me.  Then,  Paxton,  the  singer,  broke  out,  saying  he  was 
off  to  his  own  rooms,  couldn't  stand  talking  about  it  any 
longer.  He  was  blue  as  indigo.  I  sent  Bradbroke  and 
Carstairs  after  him,  to  overhaul  him,  and  then,  to  escape 
from  something  stronger  even  than  my  fear  was,  I  took 
the  first  train  I  could  get  for  Kimberley.  Not  fear,  but 
Love  drove  me.  Doomed  as  I  was,  I  held  myself  barred 
from  it.  I've  said  I  boarded  the  Kimberley  train.  Just 
ahead  of  me,  in  the  same  carriage,  I  saw  Bradbroke  and 
Carstairs.  I  went  in  on  them,  acted  the  part  of  the  dis 
coverer  of  their  flight,  and  forced  them  to  return  with  me 
to  Durban. 

"  We  got  there  sometime  in  the  night,  and,  by  common 
assent,  went  about  looking  for  Paxton.  He  had  been 
terribly  overwrought  —  with  all  his  musician's  nerves  — 
before  we  had  gone  off.  I,  personally,  feared  the  worst. 
And  it  seemed  that  Bradbroke  and  Carstairs  had  felt  the 
same  dread,  rather  the  same  dread  certainty,  so  that  it  was 
corroboration  more  than  surprise,  when  we  went  to  his 
rooms  and  found  his  note  saying  that  he  hadn't  been  able 
to  stand  it  out  any  longer,  and  had  gone  after  Eraser  and 
ChadwelL  After  we'd  read  that  note,  I  burned  it.  There 
was  no  need  of  keeping  it:  we  remembered  well  enough 
what  he  had  said.  Carstairs,  I  remember,  commented 
favourably  on  it,  and  wondered  where  Paxton'd  be  found 
and  buried.  But  I  didn't  see  the  good  in  dwelling  on  it, 


THE  MAN  BETWEEN  295 

and  evidently  Bradbroke  felt  as  I  did,  for  he  fell  in  with 
me,  after  a  little,  and  Carstairs  cut  it  out. 

"The  two  had  been  badly  off  before  Chad  well  had 
gone,  but  now  they  were  past  all  words:  they  began  to 
make  odd  deductions  from  trifles,  to  look  very  oddly.  It 
was  more  than  mere  morbid  hysteria;  and  at  last  the 
Thing  —  I  don't  know  what  better  to  call  it  —  got  on 
them  so  heavily  that  I  suggested  our  going  off  for  a  little 
vacation  somewhere.  After  a  while  they  agreed  to  it. 
It  was  going  to  be  a  little  run  to  the  Cape.  They  were 
going  to  meet  me  at  the  Rennie  dock,  from  which  the 
Inanda  sailed  at  midnight.  .  .  .  Bradbroke  met  me 
there  on  time,  and  we  wondered  what  was  keeping  Car- 
stairs.  Carstairs  didn't  show  up  at  all.  The  Inanda  sailed 
with  our  luggage,  and  Bradbroke  and  I  went  to  Carstairs' 
rooms.  There  was  no  note  left,  just  his  stuff  packed  and 
tagged  with  Bradbroke's  name  and  mine  on  it  —  divided 
up  between  us,  each  getting  what  he'd  thought  we'd  like. 
But  the  words, 

" '  Gone  after  Paxton  and  Chadwell  and  Fraser9 
seemed  to  stare  from  every  corner  and  cranny  of  that 
silent  room. 

"That  night  Bradbroke  came  to  live  with  me!  I  have 
told  you  something  of  his  manner,  his  plight,  and  his  per 
sonality,  as  I  first  found  it,  and,  though,  later,  I  was  to 
know  him  the  least  magnetic  of  them  all,  I  still  pitied  him. 
And,  even  if  I  had  not,  his  coming  to  me,  after  Carstairs' 
exit,  would  have  seemed  to  me  the  one  natural  thing  in 
all  the  distorted  world.  For,  you  see,  it  had  about  come 
down  to  this:  the  witch-doctor  had  said  that  I  was  to 
outlive  the  other  five;  on  its  face,  not  an  alarming  state- 


296  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

ment,  since,  even  crediting  it,  the  five  who  were  to  go 
first,  were  young  and  in  the  pink  of  health;  if  anything, 
that  prophecy  had  meant  good,  old  age  to  me  —  I  say 
on  the  face  of  it.  But  four  had  gone  in  a  trifle  less  than  a 
month,  and  that  altered  the  situation  very  considerably. 
Just  as  Paxton's  leaving  had  pushed  the  prospect  nearer 
to  those  of  us  who,  with  him,  had  survived  Fraser  and 
Chadwell,  the  exit  of  Carstairs  brought  It  still  closer  to 
me  and  Bradbroke,  in  a  far  more  than  proportionate  de 
gree.  Another,  and  perhaps  clearer,  way  of  stating  it  is 
that,  while  Carstairs  lived,  he  had  stood  between  It  and 
Bradbroke;  and,  now  that  Carstairs  was  out,  only  Brad- 
broke  stood  between  It  and  me.  And  so  I  decided  to 
see  that  nothing  happened  to  Bradbroke,  the  man  with 
whom,  as  he  came  to  be  later,  I  should  have  had,  under 
anything  like  ordinary  conditions,  very  little  of  anything 
to  do. 

"I've  said  that  Bradbroke  came  to  share  my  rooms 
with  me.  He  did  more  than  that :  he  hardly  left  my  sight. 
This  meant  his  giving  up  his  under-secretaryship  at  the 
consulate,  and  deprived  him  of  even  that  small  salary. 
But  I  saw  that  he  did  not  lose  by  that:  I  opened  a  busi 
ness  in  Durban  taking  him  in  as  my  partner.  I  made 
money  as  always,  and  gave  him  his  half.  And  my  Sia 
mese  twin  became  quite  likable.  Even  then,  though,  he 
would  have  his  blue  times,  and  the  upshot  of  it  was  that  I 
got  him  speculating,  under  my  guidance  —  my  earlier, 
I  should  say,  my  first  plan  for  him,  the  plan  I  had  made 
when  I  had  first  discovered  his  fix  and  determined  to  lift 
him  from  his  exile.  But  never  mind  about  that!  I  saw 
to  his  speculations,  made  him  financially  fit,  taking  from 


THE  MAN  BETWEEN  297 

my  own  holdings  when  I  had  to,  for  I  wasn't  going  to  have 
him  worrying  his  health  down  or  doing  anything  like  the 
other  four.  And  he  responded  at  once:  got  a  string  of 
ponies,  some  horses  and  dogs  and  the  rest  of  it.  And,  ever 
I  shielded  and  guarded  him.  I  had  to,  for  he  was  my 
protection,  my  safeguard,  he  was  The  Man  Between!  So, 
cost  me  what  he  might,  I  kept  him  on!  When  he  got 
restive,  I  bought  back  his  good  humour.  When,  as  not 
infrequently  happened,  he  grew  downright  reckless  and 
threatened  to  follow  the  others,  I  gave  him  another  tip  on 
the  market,  and  made  it  a  heavy  one;  and  I  imagine  that 
Fortune  saw  my  position  and  pitied  me,  for  I  never  lost, 
and  Bradbroke  got  more  and  more  and  more.  I've  never 
figured  up  his  winnings,  but  I  must  have  turned  him  at 
least  one  hundred  thousand  pounds,  for  the  speculations 
always  won  out,  and  we  were  doing  admirably  in  our  busi 
ness  —  the  importing  and  exporting  of  Australian  wools. 
We  were  hauling  in  money,  Bradbroke  and  I;  and  he  was 
standing  between  me  and  — — ! 

"Then  Bradbroke  married.  What  would  any  one  of 
you  have  done  in  my  place?  I  believe  that  they  had 
been  engaged  for  some  little  time,  even  before  he  had  come 
out  with  her  and  her  people  from  England  to  South  Africa. 
Without  once  speaking  to  him  of  it,  I  had  done  all  in  my 
power  to  obstruct  the  marriage.  I  don't  mean  that  there 
was  anything  wrong  with  Bradbroke.  It  was  just  that 
there  was  nothing  between  him  and  what  had  already 
taken  Fraser  and  Chadwell  and  the  two  others.  Still, 
when  it  was  done,  it  was  done  —  I  mean  their  marriage, 
and  I  gave  them  a  bungalow. 

"Moreover,  I  had  to  admit  that  the  marriage  seemed 


298  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

almost  justified  by  their  happiness.  It  was  good  to  see. 
Then  it  became  too  good:  it  made  me  lonely.  I'd  thought 
I  could  imagine  something  of  how  it  was,  but  the  Brad- 
brokes  made  me  see  it,  see  how  out  of  it,  how  utterly 
alone  I  was.  That  is  what  I  mean  when  I  say  that  it 
became  too  good  —  for  me. 

"Then,"  and,  for  the  first  time,  the  big  man's  voice 
went,  and  he  turned  his  eyes,  for  a  moment  from  the 
brown  face  of  the  sailor  and  the  more  colourless  faces  of 
the  other  men,  "she  became  so  dear  to  me  that,  to  see  her 
without  telling  her,  was  a  thing  impossible.  She  had  come 
to  Durban  from  England,  arriving  the  very  evening  that 
I  reached  Durban,  with  Bradbroke,  from  Kimberley. 
She  had  been  what  we  should  call,  in  America,  a  school- 
friend  of  Bradbroke's  wife.  I  had  met  her  at  once. 
The  first  time  I  had  seen  her,  I  —  knew.  I  had  blamed 
Bradbroke  for  marrying,  and  knew  that,  in  seeking  mar 
riage  with  Her,  I  should  be  only  a  degree  less  culpable. 
I  knew  that  the  right  was  not  mine.  Yes,  from  what 
it  cost  me  to  admit  it,  I  knew  that  right  was  not 
mine.  I  asked  her  to  go  back  to  her  home  in  England. 
We  told  the  truth  to  each  other,  and  she  went  home 
immediately. 

"For  the  sake  of  new  scenes  —  I  was  beyond,  and  thank 
ful  to  be  beyond,  the  power  of  forgetting  —  I  went  to 
Kimberley.  It  was  not  the  first  time  that  I  had  been  out 
of  striking  distance  of  Bradbroke.  Indeed,  since  his 
marriage,  he  had  gotten  on  very  well  without  my  over 
sight.  And,  even  if  he  had  not,  I  should  not  have  been 
able  to  endure  Durban,  after  She  had  gone  from  it.  I 
had  died,  that  moment  that  the  steamer  had  carried  her 


THE  MAN  BETWEEN  299 

from  me,  with  the  flowers  I  had  brought  for  her  held  to 
her  lips  and  breast.  I  wanted  only  the  corporeal  release 
now.  I  cared  not  what  became  of  Bradbroke.  His  turn 
might  come  when  it  would.  I  went  to  Kimberley  to 
wait  for  my  turn  to  come  to  me.  Yet,  at  last,  sud 
denly  made  fearful  by  something,  I  went  back  to  Durban 
only  to  find  that  the  Bradbrokes  had  returned  to  Eng 
land. 

"For  the  first,  it  rocked  me  —  I  mean  I  had  not  once 
expected  it.  And  yet  there  was  no  real  reason  why  not: 
except  for  our  memories,  and  the  doom,  assured,  but,  in  a 
way,  gotten  used  to,  Bradbroke  and  I  were  free  agents, 
freed,  until  the  last,  fast  approaching  moment,  by  the 
very  certainty  of  our  doom.  We  were  both  waiting,  could 
do  only  that,  and  it  did  not  matter  where.  So  I  sold  out 
my  holdings  in  Durban  and  Kimberley.  I  had  no  defi 
nite  idea  of  where  I  should  go.  You  see,  I  had  practically 
cut  loose  from  America.  South  Africa  had  come  to  be 
home  to  me:  I  had  met  Her  there,  and  it  was  my  nearest 
approach  to  —  at  least,  there  was  not  one  thing  to  deter 
mine  my  choice  of  ports.  I  was  waiting  for  death  and 
I  gave  myself  to  the  current.  By  a  force  stronger  and 
more  cruel  than  any  you  can  conceive  of,  I  had  been  cut 
adrift. 

"I  wandered  then,  tried  this  place  and  that,  a  week, 
a  month,  or  longer  —  until  I  had  found  the  latest  intoler 
able.  By  this  time,  Bradbroke  had  replied  to  me,  and 
wrote  steadily,  not  of  England,  but  of  the  hour  when  his 
Waiting  would  be  done.  Then,  the  last  that  I  had  from 
him:  She  had  married.  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  write 
to  her,  but  I  did  my  best  at  a  letter  to  Bradbroke.  It 


300  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

was  returned  to  me  with  the  word  that,  the  day  before, 
very  suddenly,  he  had  died. 

"My  wandering  was  done  then,  I  told  myself.  Death 
now  would  soon  take  pity  on  me.  And,  because  I  wanted 
to  die  in  the  land  I'd  been  born  in,  I  sailed  for  America. 
But  my  release  tarried,  and,  to  perfect  my  solitude,  I 
buried  myself  alive  in  the  remotest  North.  Not  there 
either.  I  descended,  and,  quite  at  random,  and  wrought- 
out  by  my  waiting,  I  stopped  at  Victoria.  And  there,  one 
night,  with  some  one  against  whom  Chance  had  cast  me, 
I  went  to  the  Victoria  Club.  We  had  something,  and  I 
was  almost  in  the  act  of  going,  when  I  happened  to  look 
across  to  where  a  man  was  sitting  at  a  table,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  room,  alone.  I  excused  myself  to  my  host, 
as  I  could,  saying  that,  one  day,  I  should  find  him  and 
tell  him.  Then,  I  went  over  to  the  man  who  sat  alone : 

"'Fraser,'  I  said,  'you  let  me  think  you  died,  two  years 
ago,  in  Durban.  Now  what  was  the  truth  of  it?' 

"He  looked  once  up  at  me,  and  his  lips  said,  'Good 
God!' 

"'Come  where  we  can't  be  interrupted,'  I  told  him, 
and  he  slowly  led  the  way. 

"The  truth,'  he  repeated,  indistinctly,  when  we  were 
again  seated. 

"The  truth,'  I  said,  'and  nothing  but  the  truth. 
Begin!'  And  the  truth  was  this :  They  were  remittance- 
men,  back  those  two  years  in  Durban,  earning  little,  get 
ting  hardly  more  than  that  from  their  home  people,  and 
living,  without  hope  of  recoupment,  wholly  beyond  their 
means.  And,  when  they  saw  me,  and  heard,  as  all  did, 
of  my  amazing  luck  at  Kimberley,  they  thought  that  I 


THE  MAN  BETWEEN  301 

represented  a  chance  for  their  reimbursing.  It  was  Brad- 
broke's  plan.  He  had  not  conceived  it  so  early  as  our 
first  meeting,  at  my  shack  at  Kimberley.  It  did  not 
come  until  later  when,  driven  desperate  by  his  poverty 
and  the  hopelessness  of  another,  he  had  slipped  a  step, 
slid  down  a  full  degree  in  the  moral  strata,  and  realized, 
suddenly,  that  he  must  have  money,  by  whatever  means. 
And  it  was  while  he  had  groped  about,  unconscious  of  his 
moral  lesion  and  sped  by  his  obsession,  that  he  heard  that 
terrible'story  told  at  the  club  by  that  old,  believing  soldier. 
That  gave  him  his  idea.  I  believe  that,  almost  simul 
taneously  with  it,  he  conceived  his  plan:  the  old  soldier 
had  been]deceived  by  the  verisimilitude  of  a  witch-doctor, 
and,  Bradbroke  reasoned,  why  might  not  another  white 
man  be?  Why  might  not  I  be?  That,  I  say,  must 
have  been  how  his  thoughts  ran.  And,  while  I  pitied 
him  and  planned  voluntarily  to  equip  him  with  money, 
he  launched  his  plot  to  secure  funds  from  me  through 
fraud : 

"Having  joined  Fraser  and  Chadwell  and  Paxton  and 
Carstairs  to  himself  as  fellow-conspirators,  he  brought  the 
witch-doctor  in  on  us,  that  night,  at  the  Regent,  first 
posting  him  so  that  he  could  amaze  me  as  he  did;  then, 
when  my  mood  was  right,  they  advanced  a  step  and  had 
him  perform  his  telepathic  trick;  then  they  negotiated 
his  rage  and  his  curse  and  his  'prophecy'  that  I,  as  least 
offending,  should  outlive  the  other  five.  To  give  this  the 
desired  'colour,'  Fraser  had  feigned,  and  Hammerstone, 
a  bribed  physician,  as  desperate  as  they,  had  corroborated, 
the  fiction  of  Fraser's  death. 

"Further,  then,  to  convince  me  into  believing,  Chad- 


302  THE  MAN  BET\YEEN 

well  and  Paxton  had  vanished  —  through  the  most  con 
summate  of  acting  —  leaving  only  Carstairs,  Bradbroke, 
and  myself.     Then  Carstairs  had  gone  out,  leaving  only 
Bradbroke  and   me,  he,   by  his   incredibly  clever   char 
acterization,  to  appear  as  the  only  barrier  between  myself 
and  death,  as  such  to  be  maintained  by  me  and  supplied 
plentifully  with  money  upon  which  not  only  he  but  Ham- 
merstone  and  the  rest  of  them  should  live.     That  was 
what  their  every  step  had  been  aimed  at!     I  was  never 
to  know.      If    I  so  wished,  I  could  commit  suicide.       I 
could  suit  myself  about  the  way  out  of  it.     Their  concern 
went  only  to  my  money.     And  their  design  worked  out 
even  better  than  they  had  planned.     Remorse?     Oh,  yes, 
I  believe  so:  Bradbroke  had  puzzled  me  with  that,  from 
time  to  time.     Fraser  said  that  the  horror  of  the  thing  got 
on  them  so,  at  the  way  it  worked  on  me,  that  they'd 
gladly  have  drawn  back,  if   they  could,  after  Chadwell 
went;  but  they'd  got  in  too  far,  by  that  time.     And  that 
and  their  fear  that  I  might  find  them  out  any  moment, 
made  them,  in  fact  enabled  them,  to  play  the  thing  off 
with  the  incredible  plausibility  and  convincingness  that 
they  did.     Fraser  said  it  wasn't  long  before  their  nerves 
had  all  gone  so  that  they  almost  believed  the  Thing  them 
selves.     He  said  it  was  a  hell  on  earth  to  them;  that  they 
went  almost  mad  with  the  horror  of  it  - — •  they  were  new 
to  crime.     Horror?     Yes.      But,  to  theirs  compare  the 
horror  that  was  mine!     Live  through,  for  one  moment,  a 
part  of  what   /   sustained  for  two  years!     What  was,  or 
is  or  ever  can  be,  their  remorse  —  which  Fraser  told  — 
to  me  ? 

'"And  now,'  I  asked  Fraser,  when  he  had  finished. 


THE  MAN  BETWEEN  303 

"  Bradbroke  keeps  his  part  of  the  contract.'  Fraser's 
voice  had  gone;  but  he  managed  somehow  to  get  out  the 
words. 

You  mean  he  still  sends  you  your  fifth  of  the  money 
I  gave  him  and  made  for  him? ' 

"Yes,'  said  Fraser,  with  a  look  in  his  eyes  which  told 
me  that  he'd  been  punished  enough.  'And ' 

"'And?' 

"'He's  come  into  the  title  now,  and  has  got  me  some 
thing  in  the  Government  office  here.' 

"'Chadwell,'  I  asked,  'taking  you  in  the  order  in  which 
you  'died'?" 

"The  same  thing,  except  he's  in  Washington.' 

"'Paxton  and  Carstairs  the  same?' 

"'At  Vancouver  and  Ottawa!" 

The  American  rose,  and  went  across  to  the  Earl  of 
Leighton,  whom  the  three  older  men  had  forgotten.  But 
now,  as  they  looked  at  him,  it  was  almost  in  pity,  for  the 
man  seemed  suddenly  to  have  withered,  and  his  pinched 
face  was  blue  and  gray. 

"Bradbroke"  the  man  from  America  was  saying,  "they 
know  now  what  I  meant  when  I  said  that,  compared  to 
what  I  have  seen  under  the  British  flag,  our  extortions  in 
America  are  crude.  But  enough  of  that.  I  know  the 
force  which  controlled  you,  and  ask  you  only  this:  did 
you  lie  to  me  about  her  wedding,  too?  " 

The  Earl's  head  moved:  he  was  nodding. 

For  an  instant  the  American's  face  was  such  that  the 
others  sprang  forward.  But  he  had  mastered  himself 
before  they  could  have  interposed. 

"She  is  there!"    The  peer  motioned  through  the  open 


304  THE  MAN  BETWEEN 

door  into  the  drawing-room.  "She  —  has  —  heard  you, 
and  —  waits  for  you.  Ormsby  —  Ormsby!"  The  man 
got  to  his  feet.  "Ormsby!" 

But  Ormsby  did  not  hear  him.     Heaven  had  opened: 
he  held  his  English  violet  in  his  arms. 


THE  END 


A    000129635    9 


